“I say, the schoolmastering business must be a rattling good one.  I’m blessed if I know what you want to live in ’em for if money’s so little object with you.  They’re shabby and uncomfortable, and an old chap like you—­I mean, a man of your age, who’s made his little pile, and wants luxuries like plenty of bathrooms—­ought to buy something tight and snug.  Good roof and electric light.  Place for horse and trap.  And settle down and be a gentleman.”

“My niece,” said Fritzing, brushing aside these suggestions with an angrily contemptuous wave of his hand, “has taken a fancy—­I may say an exceedingly violent fancy—­to these two cottages.  What is all this talk of traps and horses?  My niece wishes for these cottages.  I shall do my utmost to secure them for her.”

“Well, all I can say is she must be a—­”

“Silence, sir!” cried Fritzing.

Mr. Dawson got up and opened the door very wide.

“Look here,” he said, “there’s no use going on talking.  I’ve stood more from you than I’ve stood from any one for years.  Take my advice and get back home and keep quiet for a bit.  I’ve got no cottages, and Lady Shuttleworth would shut the door in your face when you got to the bathroom part.  Where are you staying?  At the Cock and Hens?  Oh—­ah—­yes—­at Baker’s.  Well, ask Mrs. Pearce to take great care of you.  Tell her I said so.  And good afternoon to you, Mr. Noyman.  You see I’ve got the name right now—­just as we’re going to part.”

“Before I go,” said Fritzing, glaring down at Mr. Dawson, “let me tell you that I have seldom met an individual who unites in his manner so singularly offensive a combination of facetiousness and hectoring as yourself.  I shall certainly describe your conduct to Lady Shuttleworth, and not, I hope, in unconvincing language.  Sir, good afternoon.”

“By-bye,” said Mr. Dawson, grinning and waving a pleasant hand.  Several bathrooms indeed!  He need have no fears of Lady Shuttleworth.  “Good luck to you with Lady S.!” he called after him cheerily.  Then he went to his wife and bade her see to it that the servant never let Fritzing in again, explaining that he was not only a foreigner but a lunatic, and that the mixture was so bad that it hardly bore thinking of.

VI

While Fritzing was losing his temper in this manner at the agent’s, Priscilla sat up in the churchyard in the sun.  The Symford churchyard, its church, and the pair of coveted cottages, are on a little eminence rising like an island out of the valley.  Sitting under the trees of this island Priscilla amused herself taking in the quiet scene at her feet and letting her thoughts wander down happy paths.  The valley was already in shadow, but the tops of the hills on the west side of it were golden in the late afternoon sunshine.  From the cottage chimneys smoke went up straight and blue into the soft sky, rooks came and settled over her head in the branches of the elms,