So the days went on. The stream of visitors usual in a country house
during the hunting season flowed in and out of Kerton Manor without any
remarkable specimen showing itself above the surface. One individual,
perhaps, I ought to except, the curate of the parish, who was a very
constant visitor.

His appearance was not fascinating: he had a long, narrow head, thatched
with straight, scanty hair; little, protruding eyes, and a complexion of
a bright unvarying red--in fact, he was very like a prawn.

It was soon evident that the Rev. Samuel Foster was helplessly smitten
by Miss Raymond, or, as Forrester elegantly expressed it, "hard hit in
the wings, and crippled for flying!" Helplessly, I say, but not
hopelessly; for that wicked little creature, acting perhaps under
private orders, gave him all sorts of treacherous encouragement. I never
saw any human being evolve so much caloric under excitement as he did,
except one young woman whom I met ages ago--(a most estimable person;
her Sunday-school was a model)--whose only way of evincing any emotion,
either of anger, fear, pain, or pleasure, was--a profuse perspiration.
Mr. Foster not only got awfully hot, but electrical into the bargain.
His thin hairs used to stand out distinctly and in relief from his head
and face, just like a person on the glass tripod. Charley suggested
insulating him unawares, and getting a flash out of his knuckles, if not
out of his brain. In truth, it was piteous to see the struggle between
passion and nervousness that raged perpetually within him. He would
stand for some time casting _lamb's_-eyes at the object of his
affections--to the amorous audacity of the full-grown sheep he never
soared--then suddenly, without the slightest provocation, he would
discharge at her a compliment, elaborate, long-winded, Grandisonian, as