"I don't remember him, my dear," said Mrs. Mildmay. "But if you really want to know him I'll try and find out who he is from the servants."
"And ask him to dinner?" urged Violet.
Mrs. Mildmay looked bewildered and puzzled.
"Yes, my dear, if you wish it, and he really belongs to the Wenningfords."
"I do wish it, aunt," said Violet. "But he doesn't belong to the Wenningfords. He belongs to the Cedars, and is no other than Mr. Leicester Dodson, the tallow melter's son!"
It is Saturday evening, and Mrs. Mildmay's little dinner is in progress.
There are the vicar and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Giles from the Ferns, and, wonderful to say, the Dodsons from the Cedars.
Miss Violet had, as usual, had her way with her aristocratic aunt, and the Dodsons are here.
For a whole day Mrs. Mildmay, with tears in her eyes, declared that she would not call at the Cedars; and it was not until Violet had, with greater firmness, vowed that she would go to the Cedars by herself rather than not at all, that the good old lady had given in.