But then the dinners at the Manor were so exquisitely served. Such
napery, such china, such sparkling and elegant glass, and such
highly-polished plate. Poor little Clara, the serving-maid, who had not
yet acquired the knack of telling a lie with _sang froid_
absolutely trembled, as she spread out her snowy table-cloths, and laid
her delicate china and glass and silver on the board.

"It don't seem worth while," she often remarked to the cook. "For what's
an' erring? It seems wicked to eat an' erring off sech plates as them."

"It's a way the quality have," retorted Mrs. Masters, who had come from
London with the Bertrams and did not mean to stay. "They heats nothing,
and they lives on _sham_. Call _this_ soup! There, Clara, you'll be
a sham yourself before you has done with them."

Clara thought this highly probable, but she was still young and
romantic, and could do a great deal of living on make-beliefs, like many
other girls all the world over.

As the Bertrams were eating their strawberries off delicate Sevres
plates on the evening of the day when Mr. Ingram had disclosed the
parentage of poor Beatrice Meadowsweet, the postman was seen passing the
window.

Benjafield had a very slow and aggravating gait. The more impatient
people were for their letters, the more tedious was he in his delivery.
Benjafield had been a fisherman in his day, and had a very sharp,
withered old face. He had a blind eye, too, and walked by the aid of a
crutch but it was his boast that, notwithstanding his one eye and his