"What a plague he will be all day tomorrow!" she said to her sister in
the drawing-room. "Father was obliged, I suppose, to invite him; but
what can we do with him all the day? Sundays are dull enough, I am sure,
already, without our having to amuse a gentleman who has scarcely
got two ideas of his own, and is afraid to say 'bo' to a goose, I do
believe. Did you hear what he said when I asked him whether he was fond
of riding?"

"Yes; and I thought it so good of him, to answer so straightforwardly.
He said that he used to be very fond of it, but was afraid that he
should fall off now."

"I should like to see him. I tell you what we'll do. We will make him
ride back on Monday morning, and put him on 'Blue Bangles,' who won't
have seen daylight since Friday. Won't he jump about a bit! What a shame
it is, not to let us ride on Sundays!"

Ignorant of these kind intentions, Scudamore was enjoying himself in
his quiet, observant way. Mr. Twemlow, the rector of the parish, had
chanced--as he often chanced on a Saturday, after buckling up a brace
of sermons--to issue his mind (with his body outside it) for a little
relief of neighbourhood. And these little airings of his chastening
love--for he loved everybody, when he had done his sermon--came,
whenever there was a fair chance of it, to a glass of the fine old port
which is the true haven for an ancient Admiral.

"Just in time, Rector," cried Admiral Darling, who had added by many
a hardship to his inborn hospitality. "This is my young friend Blyth
Scudamore, the son of one of my oldest friends. You have heard of Sir
Edmond Scudamore?"