The appointed dinner party met on the specified Thursday, and Mr. and Mrs. Fitzmaurice did the honours of their house with their accustomed hospitality and good breeding. The vicar, Mr. Orme, was accompanied only by his son and eldest daughter; the youngest, a lovely girl of fifteen, had caught a severe cold, and her mother sent an apology, being unwilling to leave her. Squire Roberts, having no wife, nor even sister, of course came alone; but good and somewhat noisy spirits supplied, both to himself and others, the place of any associate; for he always laughed, and was loud enough to do duty for two, at least. When Mr. Fitzmaurice introduced him to Miss / Flemming, which he did, directing towards her a very significant look, to the usual form on such occasions, he added these words:

‘I beg particularly, my dear Madam, to recommend this good friend of ours to your acquaintance. You will find him, at all times, a most animated and jocose companion; he will also soon discover that he has met in you with a particularly lively and amusing person; and I foretell that you will suit each other exactly. Here, Mr. Roberts, take this vacant chair, next to our kind guest, and do your best to entertain her.’

Mr. Roberts, of course, did as he was bid, and with a loud but not very intellectual laugh, flung himself into the seat recommended to him.

Meanwhile, Miss Flemming, the veriest prude in existence, had been thrown into the utmost embarrassment by what had passed – looking fifty different ways, now to the right, then to the left – sometimes up, and sometimes down – straight-forward, or at an acute angle upwards, or an obtuse one downwards – all ways, in short, except in the plain direction of Mr. Roberts’ broad good-humoured face: – in fact, seeing nothing.