dear woman--she was Miss Poyle, the vicar's sister, a robust
unmodulated person--had the happy inspiration and the unusual
courage to address herself across it to Vereker, who was opposite,
but not directly, so that when he replied they were both leaning
forward. She enquired, artless body, what he thought of Lady
Jane's "panegyric," which she had read--not connecting it however
with her right-hand neighbour; and while I strained my ear for his
reply I heard him, to my stupefaction, call back gaily, his mouth
full of bread: "Oh, it's all right--the usual twaddle!"

I had caught Vereker's glance as he spoke, but Miss Poyle's
surprise was a fortunate cover for my own. "You mean he doesn't do
you justice?" said the excellent woman.

Vereker laughed out, and I was happy to be able to do the same.
"It's a charming article," he tossed us.

Miss Poyle thrust her chin half across the cloth. "Oh, you're so
deep!" she drove home.

"As deep as the ocean! All I pretend is that the author doesn't
see--" But a dish was at this point passed over his shoulder, and
we had to wait while he helped himself.

"Doesn't see what?" my neighbour continued.

"Doesn't see anything."

"Dear me--how very stupid!"