ards it into the fibre of their
sons.

The great saddle-of-mutton controversy at an end, a Tewkesbury ham
commenced, together with the least touch of West Indian--Swithin was
so long over this course that he caused a block in the progress of the
dinner. To devote himself to it with better heart, he paused in his
conversation.

From his seat by Mrs. Septimus Small Soames was watching. He had a
reason of his own connected with a pet building scheme, for observing
Bosinney. The architect might do for his purpose; he looked clever, as
he sat leaning back in his chair, moodily making little ramparts with
bread-crumbs. Soames noted his dress clothes to be well cut, but too
small, as though made many years ago.

He saw him turn to Irene and say something and her face sparkle as he
often saw it sparkle at other people--never at himself. He tried to
catch what they were saying, but Aunt Juley was speaking.

Hadn't that always seemed very extraordinary to Soames? Only last Sunday
dear Mr. Scole, had been so witty in his sermon, so sarcastic, "For
what," he had said, "shall it profit a man if he gain his own soul,
but lose all his property?" That, he had said, was the motto of the
middle-class; now, what had he meant by that? Of course, it might be
what middle-class people believed--she didn't know; what did Soames
think?

He answered abstractedly: "How should I know? Scoles is a humbug,
though, isn't he?" For Bosinney was looking round the table, as if
pointing out the peculiarities of the guests, and Soames wondered
what he was saying. By her smile Irene was evidently agreeing with his
remarks. She seemed always to agree with other people.

Her eyes were turned on himself; Soames dropped his glance at once. The
smile had died off her lips.

A humbug? But what did Soames mean? If Mr. Scoles was a humbug, a
clergyman--then anybody might be--it was frightful!

"Well, and so they are!" said Soames.

During Aunt Juley's momentary and horrified silence he caught some words
of Irene's that sounded like: 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!'

But Swithin had finished his ham.

"Where do you go for your mushrooms?" he was saying to Irene in a voice
like a courtier's; "you ought to go to Smileybob's--he'll give 'em you
fresh. These little men, they won't take the trouble!"

Irene turned to answer him, and Soames saw Bosinney watching her and
smiling to himself. A curious smile the fellow had. A half-simple
arrangement, li