But he did not write, and he postponed the
second resolution altogether. He would see about
it, he thought. He then went out into the Sunday
town, and wandered here and there listlessly,
but kept carefully away from the cathedral,
where, if found, he knew he would be led away to
hear Doctor Fugle once more. The whole place
seemed a hundred years behind. The provincial
look was on it like a blight.

CHAPTER IX. IN THE DINING-ROOM.

BY seven he was at Mr. Tilney's again. That
gentleman was in what he pleasantly called his
"marriage garment." Messrs. Canby and Still
were there, with Ensign Ross, who, Mr. Tilney
almost insinuated, had asked himself. He was
looking absently and impatiently out of window.
Mr. Tillotson, perhaps, understood his position
perfectly, as that of a sensitive, impetuous, proud
young man, without the means to purchase
tolerance for his pride, impetuosity, and sensitiveness.
These are luxuries as expensive to keep
as dogs and racers, four-in-hands, and the
like.

A tall heavy man was on the rug with his back
to the fire, in a very smooth white tie without a
crease, which seemed to be made of cream-
laid note-paper. Mr. Tillotson recognised him as
Doctor Topham, the great ecclesiastical lawyer,
and cousin of the Secretary to the Treasury. He
sometimes recognised Mr. Tilney in this private,
unofficial way; and knowing that he had good
wines and choice fare, came to him without his
state-coach, as it were, without his robes, and
without Mrs. Topham (faintly connected with a
nobleman's family).

Mr. Tilney presented his new guest a little
nervously.

"How-de-do?" said Doctor Topham. "Well,
what d'ye suppose they did? Of course the
bishop sent the papers to me—advice and opinion,
and all that. Had he the power or had he not?
Of course he had, as I showed with a stroke of
the pen."

"Of course," said Mr. Tilney, with his eye on
the door. "Doctor Topham, we know, has the
canon law at his fingers' ends. You must tell
Tillotson about the Privy Council case."

"I tell you what," said Doctor Topham, in
a loud voice, "some stringent steps must be
taken with these men—these low radical fellows
and agitators in the Chapter here. What do they
talk of their rights for? What rights have
they? If I were the bishop, I'd deal with the
whole pack of 'em at once; and that fellow
Norbury I'd pick out and make an example of."

Here was also the Mr. Grainger whom he had
seen with Ross on the first morning. This gentleman
attracted his notice very disagreeably, from
his soft voice and quiet manner, which fell in so
harmoniously with the long, rude, and almost
battered face, the rather wild eyes, and the
"ragged" moustache which hung down over the
comers of his mouth like that of a Chinese. Mr.
Tilney had expressed a very low moral opinion
of this gentleman to his new friend. "Consul,
my dear sir, at Fernando Po; carries on the
wild animal and travelling business. It's very
common now-a-days—between ourselves, a man
of desperate habits. Some relation, I think,
of Lord Monboddo's. I know he got him a
consulship somewhere. After all, we must not
trust every story," he said, as if he was actually
combating Mr. Tillotson' s harsh view. "Charity
is a great deal. And you know, Tillotson,
'judge not, in that ye may not cast your foot
against a stone;'" with which extraordinary
quotation from no known version of the sacred
text, he went with alacrity to meet his guests.

This Mr. Grainger seemed to have the
strongest influence over Ross, founded, it would
seem, on a sort of reverence. The young man's
eyes followed the elder's (who seemed close
upon forty years old) with a strange persistence.
Mr. Grainger, who seemed to love to talk in a
low monotone to some lady, as it were in a
private corner, with his head bent down, looked
very narrowly at Mr. Tillotson as he entered, and
then asked the lady he was talking to all about
him. "Some one papa has got hold of. Papa
is always picking up people in the train, and
everywhere."

They went down to dinner, but there was
rather a "fastueux" humility in Mr. Tilney's
description of the meal as "a plain joint," for
the entertainment was choice and small,
compact and refined. There was "nice" glass,
flowers, and pretty china. The whole had a
cool shady look on that sunny day. The military
gentlemen got into alacrity and spirits as
they saw this feast, which was laid, as it were,
in an arbour.

"You must take us as you find us," said Mr.
Tilney, " quite in the rough—all in the rough.
You must recollect that we are far down in
Wiltshire—how many hundred miles is it from
Francatelli, or Soyer, or Gunter? But still, one
thing, Canby, no gory joints here—no, no,
no!"

For a place "all in the rough," so many
hundred miles from Francatelli and the other artists,
it was indeed surprising. Wine good and cool,
fish, fruit, everything. The hearts of the
warriors could not but be softened and subdued to
that good humour which is almost akin to love.
With his lively talk and bonhomie, Mr. Tilney
illustrated the whole as with a garnish. For this
(comparatively speaking) child of nature, every
dish was a surprise. "Now, what have we
here? What shall we call this? God bless me,
so it is! Doctor Topham" (he called out heartily),
"this turns out to be something à la Tartare.
Oysters, I believe. I don't warrant it, but it is
likely to turn out good. Mrs. T. knows something
about it, so you must be down on her.
Plate, Jenny." (In a whisper to Mr. Tillotson:)
"For ten years we have always had a parlour-
maid. Infinitely preferable to a heavy drunken
creature, that deafens you with his boots. Look
at Jenny there, she does uncommon well."