So we resumed our route, Mr. Petulengro sitting sideways on his horse, and I driving my little pony-cart; and when we had proceeded about three miles, we came to a small public-house, which bore the sign of the “Silent Woman,” where we stopped to refresh our cattle and ourselves; and as we sat over our bread and ale, it came to pass that Mr. Petulengro asked me various questions, and amongst others, how I intended to dispose of myself.  I told him that I did not know; whereupon, with considerable frankness, he invited me to his camp, and told me that if I chose to settle down amongst them, and become a Rommany chal, {61} I should have his wife’s sister, Ursula, who was still unmarried, and occasionally talked of me.

I declined his offer, assigning as a reason the recent death of Mrs. Herne, of which I was the cause, although innocent.  “A pretty life I should lead with those two,” said I, “when they came to know it.”  “Pooh,” said Mr. Petulengro, “they will never know it.  I shan’t blab, and as for Leonora, that girl has a head on her shoulder’s.”  “Unlike the woman in the sign,” said I, “whose head is cut off.  You speak nonsense, Mr. Petulengro:  as long as a woman has a head on her shoulders she’ll talk,—­but, leaving women out of the case, it is impossible to keep anything a secret; an old master of mine told me so long ago.  I have moreover another reason for declining your offer.  I am at present not disposed for society.  I am become fond of solitude.  I wish I could find some quiet place to which I could retire to hold communion with my own thoughts, and practise, if I thought fit, either of my trades.”  “What trades?” said Mr. Petulengro.  “Why, the one which I have lately been engaged in, or my original one, which I confess I should like better, that of a kaulomescro.” {62} “Ah, I have frequently heard you talk of making horseshoes,” said Mr. Petulengro.  “I, however, never saw you make one, and no one else that I am aware, I don’t believe.  Come, brother, don’t be angry,—­it’s quite possible that you may have done things which neither I nor any one else has seen you do, and that such things may some day or other come to light, as you say nothing can be kept secret.  Be that, however, as it may, pay the reckoning, and let us be going.  I think I can advise you to just such a kind of place as you seem to want.”

“And how do you know that I have got wherewithal to pay the reckoning?” I demanded.  “Brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “I was just now looking in your face, which exhibited the very look of a person conscious of the possession of property; there was nothing hungry or sneaking in it.  Pay the reckoning, brother.”