Anything is seized upon, that will afford an opening for posing before the world of the parish, whether it be an extreme fashion in dress or in ritual.
And the parish is splitting up into social cliques.

These girls, the local leaders of fashion, hold their heads far above those farmers' sons who bear a hand in the field.

No one is eligible who takes a share in manual work: not even to be invited to the house, or even to be acknowledged if met in the road.

The Misses -- --, whose papa is well-to-do, and simply rides round on horseback to speak to the men with his steam-plough, could not possibly demean themselves to acknowledge the existence of the young men who actually handle a fork in the haymaking time.

Nothing less than the curate is worthy of their smile.