, and the family dressed every evening for dinner. Yet, much
to her surprise, Dolly found from the first the grandeur did not in
the least incommode her. On the contrary, she enjoyed it. She
felt forthwith she was to the manner born. This was clearly the
life she was intended by nature to live, and might actually have
been living--she, the granddaughter of so grand a man as the late
Dean of Dunwich--had it not been for poor Mamma's ridiculous
fancies. Mamma was so faddy! Before Dolly had spent three whole
days at the rectory, she talked just as the Compsons did; she
picked up by pure instinct the territorial slang of the county
families. One would have thought, to hear her discourse, she had
dressed for dinner every night of her life, and passed her days in
the society of the beneficed clergy.

But even that did not exhaust the charm of Upcombe for Dolly. For
the first time in her life, she saw something of men,--real men,
with horses and dogs and guns,--men who went out partridge shooting
in the season and rode to hounds across country, not the pale
abstractions of cultured humanity who attended the Fabian Society
meetings or wrote things called articles in the London papers. Her
mother's friends wore soft felt hats and limp woollen collars; these
real men were richly clad in tweed suits and fine linen. Dolly was
charmed with them all, but especially with one handsome and manly
young fellow named Walter Brydges, the stepson and ward of a
neighboring parson. "How you talked with him at tennis to-day!"
Winnie Compson said to her friend, as they sat on the edge of
Dolly's bed one evening. "He seemed quite taken with you."

A pink spot of pleasure glowed on Dolly's round cheek to think that
a real young man, in good society, whom she met at so grand a house
as the Compsons', should seem to be quite taken with her.

"Who is he, Winnie?" she asked, trying to look less self-conscious.
"He's extremely good-looking."

"Oh, he's Mr. Hawkshaw's stepson, over at Combe Mary," Winnie
answered with a nod. "Mr. Hawkshaw's the vicar there till Mamma's
nephew is ready to take the living--what they call a warming-pan.
But Walter Brydges is Mrs. Hawkshaw's son by her first husband.
Old Mr. Brydges was the squire of Combe Mary, and Walter's his only
child. He's very well off. You might do worse, dear. He's
considered quite a catch down in this part of the country."

"How old is he?" Dolly asked, innocently enough, standing