Mr. Oliver superintended the removal of his niece's trunks, and then
stepped back into the fly.

"There's not the slightest use in my stopping to see your father, Clary,"
he said; "he won't show for a couple of hours at least. Good-bye, my dear;
make yourself as comfortable as you can. And come and see your aunt as soon
as you've recovered from your long journey, and keep up your spirits, my
dear.--Martha, be sure you give Miss Lovel a good breakfast.--Drive back to
the Rectory, coachman.--Good-bye, Clarissa;" and feeling that he had shown
his niece every kindness that the occasion required, Mr. Oliver bowled
merrily homewards. He was a gentleman who took life easily--a pastor of
the broad church--tolerably generous and good to his poor; not given to
abnormal services or daily morning prayer; content to do duty at Holborough
parish church twice on a Sunday, and twice more in the week; hunting a
little every season, in a black coat, for the benefit of his health, as he
told his parishioners; and shooting a good deal; fond of a good horse,
a good cellar, a good dinner, and well-filled conservatories and
glass-houses; altogether a gentleman for whom life was a pleasant journey
through a prosperous country. He had, some twenty years before, married
Frances Lovel; a very handsome woman--just a little faded at the time
of her marriage--without fortune. There were no children at Holborough
Rectory, and everything about the house and gardens bore that aspect of
perfect order only possible to a domain in which there are none of those
juvenile destroyers.

"Poor girl," Mr. Oliver muttered to himself, as he jogged comfortably
homewards, wondering whether his people would have the good sense to cook
'those grouse' for breakfast. "Poor Clary, it was very hard upon her; and
just Like Marmaduke not to tell her."