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“I shall preach,” said Mr. Ives thoughtfully, “on the opportunities of wealth.”

This resolution he carried out on the next day but one, that being a Sunday. I had the pleasure of sitting next to Miss Trix, and I watched her with some interest as Mr. Ives developed his theme. I will not try to reproduce the sermon, which would have seemed by no means a bad one had any of our party been able to ignore the personal application which we read into it; for its main burden was no other than this–that wealth should be used by those who were fortunate enough to possess it (here Trix looked down and fidgeted with her Prayer-book) as a means of promoting greater union between themselves and the less richly endowed, and not–as, alas! had too often been the case–as though it were a new barrier set up between them and their fellow-creatures (here Miss Trix blushed slightly, and had recourse to her smelling-bottle). “You,” said the curate, waxing rhetorical as he addressed an imaginary, but bloated, capitalist, “have no more right to your money than I have. It is intrusted to you to be shared with me.” At this point I heard Lady Queenborough sniff and Algy Stanton snigger. I stole a glance at Trix and detected a slight waver in the admirable lines of her mouth.

“A very good sermon, didn’t you think?” I said to her, as we walked home.

“Oh, very!” she replied demurely.

“Ah, if we followed all we heard in church!” I sighed.

Miss Trix walked in silence for a few yards. By dint of never becoming anything else, we had become very good friends; and presently she remarked, quite confidentially:

“He’s very silly, isn’t he?”

“Then you ought to snub him,” I said severely.

“So I do–sometimes. He’s rather amusing, though.”

“Of course, if you’re prepared to make the sacrifice involved—-“

“Oh, what nonsense!”

“Then you’ve no business to amuse yourself with him.”

“Dear, dear! how moral you are!” said Trix.

The next development in the situation was this: My cousin Dora received a letter from the Marquis of Newhaven, with whom she was acquainted, praying her to allow him to run down to Poltons for a few days; he reminded her that she had once given him a general invitation; if it would not be inconvenient–and so forth. The meaning of this communication did not, of course, escape my cousin, who had witnessed the writer’s attentions to Trix in the preceding season, nor did it escape the rest of us (who had talked over the said attentions at the club) when she told us about it, and announced that Lord Newhaven would arrive in the middle of the next day. Trix affected dense unconsciousness; her mother allowed herself a mysterious smile–which, however, speedily vanished when the curate (he was taking lunch with us) observed in a cheerful tone:

“Newhaven! Oh, I remember the chap at the House–plowed twice in Smalls–stumpy fellow, isn’t he? Not a bad chap, though, you know, barring his looks. I’m glad he’s coming.”

“You won’t be soon, young man,” Lady Queenborough’s angry eye seemed to say.

“I remember him,” pursued Jack; “awfully smitten with a tobacconist’s daughter in the Corn–oh, it’s all RIGHT, Lady Queenborough–she wouldn’t look at him.”

This quasi apology was called forth by the fact of Lady Queenborough pushing back her chair and making for the door. It did not at all appease her to hear of the scorn of the tobacconist’s daughter. She glanced sternly at Jack and disappeared. He turned to Trix and reminded her–without diffidence and coram populo, as his habit was–that she had promised him a stroll in the west wood.

What happened on that stroll I do not know; but meeting Miss Trix on the stairs later in the afternoon, I ventured to remark:

“I hope you broke it to him gently, Miss Queenborough?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” replied Trix haughtily.

“You were out nearly two hours,” said I.

“Were we?” asked Trix, with a start. “Good gracious! Where was mamma, Mr. Wynne?”