Mary Lyster was one of the maidens whom it would be possible for him to
marry. His mother had never pressed her upon him, but she would
certainly acquiesce. It would have been mere mock modesty on his part
not to guess that Mary would probably not refuse him. And she was
handsome, well provided, well connected--oppressively so, indeed; a man
might quail a little before her relations. Moreover, she and he had
always been good friends, even when as a boy he could not refrain from
teasing her for a slow-coach. During his electoral weeks in the country
the thought of "Polly" had often stolen kindly upon his rare moments of
peace. He must marry, of course. There was no particular excitement or
romance about it. Now that his elder brother was dead and he had become
the heir, it simply had to be done. And Polly was very nice--quite
sweet-tempered and intelligent. She looked well, moved well, would fill
the position admirably.

Then, suddenly, as these half-thoughts rushed through his brain, a
breath of something cold and distracting--a wind from the land of
_ennui_--seemed to blow upon them and scatter them. Was it the mention
of the Bishop--tiresome, pompous fellow--or her slightly pedantic
tone--or the infinitesimal hint of "management" that her speech implied?
Who knows? But in that moment perhaps the scales of life inclined.

"Much obliged to the Bishop," he repeated, walking up and down. "I am
afraid, however, I don't take things as seriously as he does. Oh, I hope
I shall behave decently--but, good Lord, what a comedy it is! You know
the sort of articles"--he turned towards her--"our papers will be
writing to-morrow on my appointment. They'll make me out no end of a
fine fellow--you'll see! And, of course, the real truth is, as you and I
know perfectly well, that if it hadn't been for poor Freddy's death--and
mother--and her dinners--and the chaps who come here--I might have