“Depend upon it,” said Mrs. Tallant soothingly, “she is by far too well-behaved a girl to occasion us a moment’s anxiety. I am sure, too, that her principles are too sound to allow her to lose her head. To be sure, she can be a sad romp, and that, my dear sir, is because she has not yet enjoyed the advantages of town polish. I am hopeful of seeing her much improved by a season spent with Bella Bridlington. And if—mind, I only say—if!—she were to contract a suitable alliance I am sure you would be as thankful as anyone could be!”

“Yes,” agreed the Vicar, sighing. “I should certainly be glad to see her comfortably established, the wife of a respectable man.”

“And not the wife of young Dewsbury!” interpolated Mrs. Tallant.

“Indeed, no! I cannot suppose that any child of mine could attain happiness with a man whom I must—with reluctance—think a very vulgar fellow!”

“In that case, my dear,” said Mrs. Tallant, rising briskly to her feet, “I will write to accept Lady Bridlington’s most obliging invitation.”

“You must do as you think right,” he said. “I have never interfered with what you considered proper for your daughters.”

Thus it was that, at four o’clock on this momentous day, when the Vicar joined his family at the dinner-table, he surprised them by making a humorous reference to Arabella’s projected trip. Not even Betsy would have ventured to have mentioned the scheme, for it was generally supposed that he must disapprove of it. But after grace had been said, and the family had disposed themselves about the long table, Arabella began, not very expeditiously, to carve one of the side-dishes, and the Vicar, looking up from his own labours in time to see her place a slightly mangled wing of chicken on a plate, remarked, with a twinkle: “I think Arabella must take lessons in carving before she goes into society, or she will disgrace us all by her unhandiness. It will not do, you know, my dear, to precipitate a dish into your neighbour’s lap, as you seem to be in danger of doing at this moment!”