“The fact of it was,” she admitted, “my headache and appetite were stronger than my sense of the conventions.  Now that the former are dissipated the latter are beginning to assert themselves.  And so—­”

She began to draw on her gloves.  Just then a carriage with postilions and ladies with luggage came clattering up the street.  She watched it with darkening face.

“That is the sort of man I detest,” she said, motioning her head towards the window.  “You know whose carriage it is, don’t you?”

He shook his head.

“No, I did not know that any one round here drove with positions.”

“It is the Marquis of Arranmore.  He has a place at Enton, I believe, but he is only here for a few months in the year.”

Brooks started and leaned eagerly forward.

“Why do you hate him?” he asked.  “What has he done?”

“Didn’t you hear how he treated the Mayor when he went out for a subscription to the Unemployed Fund?”

Brooks shook his head.

“No!  I have heard nothing.”

“Poor old Mr. Wensome went out all that way purposely to see him.  He was kept waiting an hour, and then when he explained his errand the Marquis laughed at him.  ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ’the poor people of Medchester do not interest me in the least.  I do not go to the people who are better off than I am and ask them to help support me, nor do I see the least reason why those who are worse off than I am should expect me to support them.’  Mr. Wensome tried to appeal to his humanity, and the brute only continued to laugh in a cynical way.  He declared that poor people did not interest him.  His tenants he was prepared to look after—­outside his own property he didn’t care a snap of the fingers whether people lived or died.  Mr. Wensome said it was perfectly awful to hear him talk, and he came away without a penny.  Yet his property in this country alone is worth fifty thousand a year.

“It is very surprising,” Brooks said, thoughtfully.  “The more surprising because I know of a kind action which he once did.”

“Sh! they’re coming here!” she exclaimed.  “That is the Marquis.”

The omnibus had pulled up outside.  A tall footman threw open the door, and held an umbrella over the two ladies who had descended.  The Marquis and two other men followed.  They trooped into the little place, bringing with them a strange flavour of another world.  The women wore wonderful furs, and one who had ermine around her neck wore a great bunch of Neapolitan violets, whose perfume seemed to fill the room.

“This is a delightful idea,” the taller one said, turning towards her host.  “An eight-mile drive before tea sounded appalling.  Where shall we sit, and may we have muffins?”

“There is nothing about your youth, Lady Sybil, which I envy more than your digestion,” he answered, motioning them towards a table.  “To be able to eat muffins with plenty of butter would be unalloyed bliss.  Nevertheless, you shall have them.  No one has ever called me selfish.  Let us have tea, and toast, and bread-and-butter and cakes, and a great many muffins, please, young lady,” he ordered.  “And will you send out some tea to my servants, please?  It will save them from trying to obtain drinks from the hotel next door, and ensure us a safe drive home.”