“You very seldom say anything, my love,� remarked old Tom, quite gravely.
“Well, Mr. Shapleigh, I hope the next time you get married you will marry a loquacious woman, and then, perhaps, you’ll long for your poor, dear, humble Belinda. But to get back to the dinner. Of course, we must have everything just as nearly like the way they have it at Deerchase as possible, although how on earth we can have things the least like they do at Deerchase, even if I put out every piece of glass and silver I have in the world, is more than I can tell. But whom shall we ask? That queer person that Richard Skelton brought home to write his book—Mr. Bulstrode?�
“Yes, by all means,� cried old Tom, grinning. “He looks to me likely to be an ornament to society.�
“And Mr. and Mrs. Blair?�
“Exactly, my love. Blair and Skelton hate each other like the devil; and Mrs. Blair jilted Skelton, and I daresay has been sorry for it ever since. Oh, yes, we’ll have the Blairs, madam.�
“And Mr. Conyers?�
“Gadzooks, madam, you’re a genius! Skelton doesn’t believe in hell in the next world, and Conyers is trying to make a little hell of his own in Abingdon parish; so they will do excellently well together.�
“Mr. Shapleigh, you don’t mean to tell me that Richard Skelton doesn’t believe in hell?� asked Mrs. Shapleigh in a shocked voice.
“I do, indeed, my sweet. I’m not sure that he believes in a personal devil, or the horns and the hoofs, or even the tail.�
“Good gracious, Mr. Shapleigh!� cried Mrs. Shapleigh in much horror and distress. “If Mr. Skelton doesn’t believe in a hell, we might as well give up asking him to dinner, because the bishop is coming next month, and he’ll be certain to hear of it; and what will he say when he hears that we have been entertaining a person like Richard Skelton, who flies in the face of everything the bishop says we ought to believe!�