“The people here, sir, set great store both by their church and their services.  They have been hoping, now that you and Mrs. Melrose have come to live here, that you might perhaps be willing to pay some suitable man to take the full duty.”

Melrose laughed aloud.

“I?  Good Heavens!  I pay a parson to read me the English Church services!  Well, I don’t wish to inflict my religious opinions upon any one, Tyson; but I may as well tell you that they don’t run at all in the direction of parsons.  And Mrs. Melrose—­why I told you she was a Catholic—­a Roman Catholic.  What does she want with a church?  But a parson’s wife might have been useful.  By the way, I thought I saw a nice-looking girl when we arrived, who has since disappeared.”

“That was Thyrza Smart, sir—­the daughter of Smart, the farmer.”

“Excellent!  Mrs. Melrose shall make friends with her.”

“And of course, sir, both Pengarth and Keswick are within a drive.”

“Oh, that’s no good,” said Melrose, easily.  “We shall have no carriage.”

The agent stared.  “No carriage?  I am afraid in that case you will find it very difficult getting about.  There are no flys anywhere near that you can hire.”

“What do we want with them?” Melrose lit another cigarette.  “I may have a horse—­possibly.  And of course there’s the light cart I told you to get.  We can’t trust these things”—­he pointed to the packages in the room—­“to irresponsible people.”

“The cart, sir, has been constantly at work.  But—­it won’t exactly suit Mrs. Melrose.”  Tyson smiled discreetly.

“Oh! leave that to me—­leave that to me!” said Melrose with an answering good humour.  “Stable and carriage expenses are the deuce.  There never was a coachman yet that didn’t rob his employer.  Well, thank you; I’m glad to have had this talk with you, and now, I go to bed.  Beastly cold, I must say, this climate of yours!”

And with a very evident shiver the speaker buttoned the heavy fur coat he had never yet taken off more closely round him.

“What about that man from Carlisle—­and the furnace?” he inquired sharply.

“He comes to-morrow, sir.  I could not get him here earlier.  I fear it will be an expensive job.”

“No matter.  With my work, I cannot risk incessant attacks of rheumatism.  The thing must be done, and done well.  Good-night to you, Tyson.”

Mr. Melrose waved a dismissing hand.  “We shall resume our discussion to-morrow.”

The agent departed.  Melrose, left solitary, remained standing a while before the fire, examining attentively the architecture and decorations of the room, so far as the miserable light revealed them.  Italian, no doubt, the stucco work of the ceiling, with its embossed nymphs and cupids, its classical medallions.  Not of the finest kind or period, but very charming—­quite decorative.  The house had been built on the site of an ancient border fortess, toward the middle of