Lady Latimer, was taking a walk round the garden with his brother
church-warden, Mr. Musgrave, and Mr. Carnegie had made his bow to the
rector's wife, who was not included in his aversion for the rector. Mr.
Phipps, also a gentleman of no great account in society, but a liberal
supporter of the parish charities, was there--a small, grotesque man to
look at, who had always an objection in his mouth. Was any one praised,
he mentioned a qualification; was any one blamed, he interposed a plea.
He had a character for making shrewd, incisive remarks, and was called
ironical, because he had a habit of dispersing flattering delusions and
wilful pretences by bringing the dry light of truth to bear upon them--a
gratuitous disagreeableness which was perhaps the reason why he was now
perched on a tree-stump alone, casting shy, bird-like glances hither and
thither--at two children quarrelling over a cracked tea-cup, at the
rector halting about uncomfortably amongst the "secondary people," at
his wife being instructed by Lady Latimer, at Lady Latimer herself,
tired but loath to go, at Bessie Fairfax, full of spirit and
forgetfulness, running at speed over the grass, a vociferous, noisy
troop of children after her.

"Stop, stop, you are not to cross the lawn!" cried Mrs. Wiley. "Bessie
Carnegie, what a tomboy you are! We might be sure if there was any
roughness you were at the head of it."

Lady Latimer also looked austere at the infringement of respect. Bessie
did not hear, and sped on till she reached the tree-stump where Mr.
Phipps was resting, and touched it--the game was "tiggy-touch-wood."
There she halted to take breath, her round cheeks flushed, her carnation
mouth open, and her pursuers baffled.

"You are a pretty young lady!" said Mr. Phipps, not alluding to Bessie's