And the kitchen-maid was better.  Mrs. Mallet, indeed, assured Lady Atherley that Hann was not long for this world, having turned just the same colour as the late Mr. Mallet did on the eve of his death; but fortunately the patient herself, as well as the doctor, took a more hopeful view of the case.

“I can see Mrs. Mallet is a horrible old croaker,” said Lady Atherley.

“Let her croak,” said Atherley, “so long as she cooks as she did last night.  That curry would have got her absolution for anything if your uncle had been here.”

“That reminds me, George, the ceiling of the spare room is not mended yet.”

“Why, I thought you sent to Whitford for a plasterer yesterday?”

“Yes, and he came; but Mrs. Mallet has some extraordinary story about his falling into his bucket and spoiling his Sunday coat, and going home at once to change it.  I can’t make it out, but nothing is done to the ceiling.”

“I make it out,” said Atherley; “I make out that he was a little the worse for drink.  Have we not a plasterer in the village?”

“I think there is one.  I fancy the Jacksons did not wish us to employ him, because he is a dissenter; but after all, giving him work is not the same as giving him presents.”

“No, indeed; nor do I see why, because he is a dissenter, I, who am only an infidel, am to put up with a hole in my ceiling.”

“Only, I don’t know what his name is.”

“His name is Smart.  Everybody in our village is called Smart—­most inappropriately too.”

“No, George, the man the doctor told us about who is so dangerously ill is called Monk.”

“I am glad to hear it; but he doesn’t belong to our parish, though he lives so close.  He is actually in Rood Warren.  His cottage is at the other side of the Common.”

“Then we can leave the wine and things as we go.  And, George, while the boys are having tea with Aunt Eleanour, I think I shall drive on to Quarley Beacon and try and persuade Cecilia to come back and spend the night with us.  I think we could manage to put her up in the little blue dressing-room.  She is so good-natured; she won’t mind its being so small.”

“Yes, do; I want Lyndsay to see her.  And give my best love to Aunt Eleanour, and say that if she is going to send me any more tracts against Popery, I should be extremely obliged if she would prepay the postage sufficiently.”

“Oh no, George, I could not.  It was only threepence.”

“Well, then, tell her it is no good sending any at all, because I have made up my mind to go over to Rome next July.”

“No, George; she might not like it, and I don’t believe you are going to do anything of the kind.  Oh, are you off already?  I thought you would settle something about the plasterer.”

“No, no; I can’t think of plasterers and repairs to-day.  Even the galley-slave has his holiday—­this is mine.  I am going to see the hounds throw off at Rood Acre, and forget for one day that I have an inch of landed property in the world.”