When the two ladies took their departure, Mrs. Burnham seemed reflective. Finally she said,—"Poor Mrs. Egerton's mind is not what it was, and it never was remarkably strong. It must be admitted, too, that there is a lack of—of delicacy. Those great plain girls of hers must be a trial to her."
As she spoke they were passing the privet hedge which surrounded Miss Bassett's house and garden; and a sound caused both to glance around. The front door had just been opened; and a gentleman was descending the steps,—a young gentleman in neat clerical garb, his guileless ecclesiastical countenance suffused with mantling blushes of confusion and delight. He stopped on the gravel path to receive the last words of Miss Octavia Bassett, who stood on the threshold, smiling down upon him in the prettiest way in the world.
"Tuesday afternoon," she said. "Now don't forget; because I shall ask Mr. Barold and Miss Gaston, on purpose to play against us. Even St. James can't object to croquet."
"I—indeed, I shall be most happy and—and delighted," stammered her departing guest, "if you will be so kind as to—to instruct me, and forgive my awkwardness."
"Oh! I'll instruct you," said Octavia. "I have instructed people before, and I know how."
Mrs. Burnham clutched Miss Pilcher's arm.
"Do you see who that is?" she demanded. "Would you have believed it?"
Miss Pilcher preserved a stony demeanor.
"I would believe any thing of Miss Octavia Bassett," she replied. "There would be nothing at all remarkable, to my mind, in her flirting with the bishop himself! Why should she hesitate to endeavor to entangle the curate of St. James?"