There were a great many people in the room when Lucy went in, leaning, much against her will, on Mrs. Ford’s arm. She was quite able to walk by herself, and did not indeed like the careful and somewhat fussy support which was given her, but she put up with it, looking straight before her, not to meet the compassionating looks which Mrs. Ford thought it part of her _rôle_ to address to the orphan. “Yes, my darling, it’s a great trial for you,” Mrs. Ford kept saying, “a great trial, my love, but you will be supported if you are brave; and I am sure you will be brave, my dearie-dear.” Now it was not Mrs. Ford’s custom to call Lucy her darling and her dearie-dear, which confused the girl; but all the same she resigned herself. Some one rose when she came in and folded her in a large embrace. Floods of black silk and waves of perfume seemed to pass over her head, and then she emerged, catching her breath a little. This was Lady Randolph, who was large, but handsome and comely, and filled up a great part of what space there was to spare. Seated at a little distance was Mrs. Stone, who showed her more delicate sense of Lucy’s “trial” only by giving her a look in which pity was tempered by encouragement, and a slight friendly nod. Besides these ladies, whom she identified at once, there seemed to Lucy to be a cloud of men. All were silent, looking at her as she came in; all were in black, black gloves making themselves painfully apparent on the hands of the ladies. It was before the time when black paws became the fashion on all occasions. Even Mr. Ford wore black gloves; it was an important part of the general “respect.” After awhile, even the men became comprehensible to Lucy. There was Mr. Rushton, the town clerk, and Mr. Chervil, from London, and another lawyer with a large blue bag, whom she did not know. Seated near these gentlemen, with an amiable, patronizing air which seemed to say, “I am very glad to countenance you, but what can I have to do here?” was, to the surprise of most of the company, the rector, who had so placed himself that, though he did not know what he was wanted for, he had the look of being a kind of chairman of the assembly; while near the door, sitting on the edge of his seat, holding his hat in one hand, and brushing it carefully with the other, was Mr. Williamson, the Dissenting minister. Mr. Williamson did not at all know how he was to be received in this company. They were all “church people,” even the Fords, though they had begun on other principles. And John Trevor had just been buried, though he was a stanch old Nonconformist, with the ceremonials of the church. Mr. Williamson did not know whether to be defiant or conciliatory. Sometimes he smiled at his hat, smoothing it round and round. The hat-band had been taken off, and carefully folded by to take home to his wife; in this point he had taken example by the rector, who was very well used to the sort of thing, and did not like anything to be wasted. Clergymen’s wives are very well aware that hat-bands are always made of the richest of silk.