This was more than La Fleur could comprehend, but she inferred in a general way that Mr. Haverley’s farm was a profitable one.

“All so pretty, so pretty,” she said, looking from side to side; “such a grand barn, and such broad acres.  Is it the estate as far as I can see?”

“Yes, mum,” said Mike, “an’ a good deal furder.  The woods cuts it off down thataway.”

“It is a lordly place,” said La Fleur, “and it does you honor, Michael, for the cook told me you were Mr. Haverley’s head man.”

“I reckon she’s about right there,” said Mike.

“And I am very glad indeed,” continued the old woman, “that Mrs. and Miss Drane are living here.  And now, Michael, if either of them is ever taken ill, and you’re sent for the doctor, I want you to come straight to me, and I’ll see that he goes to them.  If you knock at the back door of the kitchen, I’ll hear you, whether I am awake or asleep.  And when you are coming to town, Michael, you must drop in and see me.  I can give you a nice bit of a lunch, any day.  I daresay you like good things to eat as well as any-body.”

Mike stood silent for a moment, and his eyes began to brighten.

“Indeed I do, mum,” said he.  “If I was to carry in a punkin to you when they’re ripe, I wonder if you’d be willin’ to make me a punkin pie, same kind as Queen Victoria has in the fall of the year.”

La Fleur beamed on him most graciously.

“I will do that gladly, Michael:  you may count on me to do that.  And I will give you other things that you like.  Wait till we see, wait till we see.  Good-day, Michael; I must be going now, or the doctor will be kept waiting for his dinner.  Where’s my cabby?”

“Mr. Griffing has drove round to the front of the house, mum,” said Mike.

“Just like the stupid American,” muttered the old woman as she hurried away, “as if I’d get in at the front of the house.”

Andy Griffing talked a good deal on the drive back to Thorbury, but La Fleur heard little and answered less.  She was in a state of great mental satisfaction, and during her driver’s long descriptions of persons and places, she kept saying to herself, “It couldn’t be better than that.  It couldn’t be better than that.”

This mental expression she applied to Mr. Haverley, whom she considered an extraordinarily fine-looking young man; to the broad acres and fine barn; to the fact that the Dranes were living with him; to the probability that he would fall in love with the charming Miss Cicely, and make her mistress of the estate; and to the strong possibility, that should this thing happen, she herself would be the cook of Cobhurst, and help her young mistress put the establishment on the footing that her station demanded.

“It couldn’t be better than that,” she muttered over and over again as she busied herself about the Tolbridge dinner, and she even repeated the expression two or three times after she went to bed.