It was ten endless minutes before she reappeared with the coffee.  The whole of the second five minutes Lancelot paced his room feverishly, cursing the ground floor, and stamping as if to bring down its ceiling.  He was curious to know more of Mary Ann’s history.

But it proved meagre enough.  Her mother died when Mary Ann was a child; her father when she was still a mere girl.  His affairs were found in hopeless confusion, and Mary Ann was considered lucky to be taken into the house of the well-to-do Mrs. Leadbatter, of London, the elder sister of a young woman who had nursed the vicar’s wife.  Mrs. Leadbatter had promised the vicar to train up the girl in the way a domestic should go.

“And when I am old enough she is going to pay me wages as well,” concluded Mary Ann, with an air of importance.

“Indeed—­how old were you when you left the village?”

“Fourteen.”

“And how old are you now?”

Mary Ann looked confused.  “I don’t quite know,” she murmured.

“Oh, come,” said Lancelot laughingly; “is this your country simplicity?  You’re quite young enough to tell how old you are.”

The tears came into Mary Ann’s eyes.

“I can’t, Mr. Lancelot,” she protested earnestly; “I forgot to count—­I’ll ask missus.”

“And whatever she tells you, you’ll be,” he said, amused at her unshakable loyalty.

“Yessir,” said Mary Ann.

“And so you are quite alone in the world?”

“Yessir—­but I’ve got my canary.  They sold everything when my father died, but the vicar’s wife she bought my canary back for me because I cried so.  And I brought it to London and it hangs in my bedroom.  And the vicar, he was so kind to me, he did give me a lot of advice, and Mrs. Amersham, who kept the chandler’s shop, she did give me ninepence, all in threepenny bits.”

“And you never had any brothers or sisters?”

“There was our Sally, but she died before mother.”

“Nobody else?”

“There’s my big brother Tom—­but I mustn’t tell you about him.”

“Mustn’t tell me about him?  Why not?”

“He’s so wicked.”

The answer was so unexpected that Lancelot could not help laughing, and Mary Ann flushed to the roots of her hair.

“Why, what has he done?” said Lancelot, composing his mouth to gravity.

“I don’t know; I was only six.  Father told me it was something very dreadful, and Tom had to run away to America, and I mustn’t mention him any more.  And mother was crying, and I cried because Tom used to give me tickey-backs and go black-berrying with me and our little Sally; and everybody else in the village they seemed glad, because they had said so all along, because Tom would never go to church, even when a little boy.”

“I suppose then you went to church regularly?”

“Yessir.  When I was at home, I mean.”

“Every Sunday?”