'Jenkins, the miser,' was quite swallowed up in 'Howel Jenkins, Esq.,' and 'Netta Prothero, Glanyravon,' was engulphed in his wife.

So goes the world.

Shout on, little boys, for so will it be when you are in your turn big men, and 'adore the rising, rather than the setting sun,' as the French proverb hath it.
Fortunately, Abertewey was in the parish of Llanfawr, and some seven or eight miles from Glanyravon, therefore Mr and Mrs Prothero knew nothing of the demonstrations in honour of their children.
Mrs Griffith Jenkins received them, dressed in a new _moire antique_, quite in baronial style, under the portico of their dwelling, and the proper complement of retainers was in the background.

More shouts were heard from some of the immediate neighbours, who had gathered round the door to see the arrival; and as Netta alighted from her carriage, attired like a Paris doll, she felt that she was now a grand lady, and could conscientiously look down on Miss Rice Rice, and be on an equality with Miss Nugent.
Howel gave some orders in a very commanding tone to the various lords-in-waiting, and then the door closed upon their majesties, and the admiring crowds saw them no more.
It is no wonder that the world without Plas Abertewey was much engaged in talking of, and speculating on, the world within.

Howel's horses, Netta's dress, Miss Simpson's father's baronetcy, Captain Dancy's regiment, Plas Abertewey's appointments, the footmen's liveries, the reputed wealth of the miser, even Mrs Griffith Jenkins' _moire antique_, mourning ornaments and gold watch were variously remarked upon, and doubtless with great good nature and deserving approbation.