on other occasions been compelled to fondle little nieces and nephews, and now set about the task in the mode he always used.

‘Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle,’ said he, putting the child on one knee, and working away with it as though he were turning a knife–grinder’s wheel with his foot.

‘Mamma, mamma,’ said Julia, crossly. ‘I don’t want to be diddle diddled. Let me go, you naughty old man, you.’

Poor Mr Thorne put the child down quietly on the ground, and drew back his chair; Mr Slope, who had returned to the pole star that attracted him, laughed aloud; Mr Arabin winced and shut his eyes; and the signora pretended not to hear her daughter.

‘Go to Aunt Charlotte, lovey,’ said the mamma, ‘and ask her it if is not time for you to go out.’

But little Julia, though she had not exactly liked the nature of Mr Thorne’s attention, was accustomed to be played with by gentlemen, and did not relish the idea of being sent so soon to her aunt.

‘Julia, go when I tell you, my dear.’ But Julia still went pouting about the room. ‘Charlotte, do come and take her,’ said the signora. ‘She must go out; and the days get so short now.’ And thus ended the much–talked of interview between Mr Thorne and the last of the Neros.

Mr Thorne recovered from the child’s crossness sooner than from Mr Slope’s laughter. He could put up with being called an old man by an infant, but he did not like to be laughed at by the bishop’s chaplain, even though that chaplain was about to become a dean. He said nothing, but he showed plainly enough that he was angry.

The signora was ready enough to avenge him. ‘Mr Slope,’ said she, ‘I hear that you are triumphing on all sides.’

‘How so,’ said he smiling. He did not dislike being talked to about the deanery, though, of course, he strongly denied the imputation.

‘You carry the day both in love and war.’ Mr Slope hereupon did not look quite so satisfied as he had done.

‘Mr Arabin,’ continued the signora, ‘don’t you think Mr Slope is a very lucky man?’

‘Not more than he deserves, I am sure,’ said Mr Arabin.

‘Only think, Mr Thorne, he is to be our new dean; of course we all know that.’

‘Indeed, signora,’ said Mr Slope, ‘we all know nothing about it. I can assure you I myself—’

‘He is to be the new dean—there is no manner of doubt of it, Mr Thorne.’

‘Hum,’ said Mr Thorne.

‘Passing over the heads of old men like my father and Archdeacon Grantly—’

‘Oh—oh!’ said Mr Slope.

‘The archdeacon would not accept it,’ said Mr Arabin; whereupon Mr Slope smiled abominably, and said, as plainly as a look could speak, that the grapes were sour.

‘Going over all our heads,’ continued the signora; ‘for, of course, I consider myself one of the chapter.’