Mr. Prosper, in order to excuse his slackness in calling on the lady, had let it be known that he was not quite well, and Miss Thoroughbung had responded to this move by offering her services as nurse to her lover.  He had then written to herself that, though he had been a little unwell, “suffering from a cold in the chest, to which at this inclement season of the year it was peculiarly liable,” he was not in need of anything beyond a little personal attention, and would not trouble her for those services, for the offer of which he was bound to be peculiarly grateful.  Thus he had thought to keep Miss Thoroughbung at a distance; but here she was with those hated ponies at his very door.  “Matthew,” he said, making a confidant, in the distress of the moment of his butler, “I don’t think I can see her.”

“You must, sir; indeed you must.”

“Must!”

“Well, yes; I’m afraid so.  Considering all things,—­the matrimonial prospects and the rest of it,—­I think you must, sir.”

“She hasn’t a right to come here, you know,—­as yet.”  It will be understood that Mr. Prosper was considerably discomposed when he spoke with such familiar confidence to his servant.  “She needn’t come in here, at any rate.”

“In the drawing-room, if I might be allowed to suggest, sir.”

“Show Miss Thoroughbung into the drawing-room,” said he with all his dignity.  Then Matthew retired, and the Squire of Buston felt that five minutes might be allowed to collect himself, and the mutton-chop bone need not be removed.

When the five minutes were over, with slow steps he walked across the intervening billiard-room, and slowly opened the drawing-room door.  Would she rush into his arms, and kiss him again as he entered?  He sincerely hoped that there would be no such attempt; but if there were, he was sternly resolved to repudiate it.  There should be nothing of the kind till she had clearly declared, and had put it under writing by herself and her lawyers, that she would consent to come to Buston without the ponies.  But there was no such attempt.  “How do you do, Mr. Prosper?” she said, in a loud voice, standing up in the middle of the room.  “Why don’t you ever come and see me?  I take it very ill of you; and so does Miss Tickle.  There is no one more partial to you than Miss Tickle.  We were talking of you only last night over a despatched crab that we had for supper.”  Did they have despatched crabs for supper every night? thought Mr. Prosper to himself.  It was certainly a strong reason against his marriage.  “I told her that you had a cold in your head.”

“In my chest,” said Mr. Prosper, meekly.

“‘Bother colds!’ said Miss Tickle.  ’When people are keeping company together they ought to see each other.’  Those were Miss Tickle’s very words.”