"Dear me," said the Vicar; "I am sorry to hear that. He was wild at
Christchurch, but nothing out of the way. Why, I remember at the
Aylesbury Grinds--"

Miss Limpenny, who did not know an Aylesbury Grind from a Bampton
Lecture, yet detected an unfamiliar ring in the Vicar's voice.

"He fought a welsher," pursued the Vicar, "just before riding in a
race. 'Rollingstone,' his horse was, and Cheddar's eyes closed
before the second fence. 'Tom,' he called to me--I was on a mare
called Barmaid--"

I ask you to guess the amazement that fell among us. He--our Vicar--
riding a mare called Barmaid! Miss Limpenny cast her eyes up to meet
the descent of the thunderbolt.

"Lord Ballarat was riding too," the Vicar went on, "and young Tom
Beauchamp, son of the Bishop--"

"Died of D.T. out at Malta with the Ninety-ninth," interpolated the
Honourable Frederic.

"So I heard, poor fellow. Three-bottle Beauchamp we called him.
I've put him to bed many a time when--"

It was too much.

"In the Great Exhibition of 1851," began Miss Priscilla severely.