CHAPTER VII.
"Four, o'clock," cried the parson, looking at his watch; "half an hour after dinner-time, and Mrs.Dale particularly begged me to be punctual, because of the fine trout the squire sent us.

Will you venture on what our homely language calls 'pot-luck,' Doctor ?" Now Riccabocca was a professed philosopher, and valued himself on his penetration into the motives of human conduct.

And when the parson thus invited him to pot-luck, he smiled with a kind of lofty complacency; for Mrs.Dale enjoyed the reputation of having what her friends styled "her little tempers." And, as well-bred ladies rarely indulge "little tempers" in the presence of a third person not of the family, so Dr.
Riccabocca instantly concluded that he was invited to stand between the pot and the luck! Nevertheless--as he was fond of trout, and a much more good-natured man than he ought to have been according to his principles--he accepted the hospitality; but he did so with a sly look from over his spectacles, which brought a blush into the guilty cheeks of the parson.

Certainly Riccabocca had for once guessed right in his estimate of human motives.
The two walked on, crossed a little bridge that spanned the rill, and entered the parsonage lawn.

Two dogs, that seemed to have sat on watch for their master, sprang towards him, barking; and the sound drew the notice of Mrs.Dale, who, with parasol in hand, sallied out from the sash window which opened on the lawn.