The picture was an “Etty,” taken in part payment of a debt by Montague’s father, but, as it portrayed a nude woman, the old Puritan had employed a Melkbridge carpenter to conceal that portion of the figure which the artist had omitted to drape.  Montague would have had the shutters removed, but had been prevailed upon by his wife to allow them to remain until Victoria was married, an event which, at present, she had no justification for anticipating.

The late afternoon post had brought a letter for Mrs Devitt, which gave rise to something of a discussion.

“Actually, here is a letter from Miss Annie Mee,” said Mrs Devitt.

“Your old schoolmistress!” remarked Miss Spraggs.

“I didn’t know she was alive,” went on Mrs Devitt.  “She writes from Brandenburg College, Aynhoe Road, West Kensington Park, London, asking me to do something for her.”

“Of course!” commented the agreeable rattle.

“How did you know?” asked Mrs Devitt, looking up from the letter she was reading with the help of glasses.

“Didn’t you know that there are two kinds of letters:  those you want and those that want something?” asked Miss Spraggs, in a way that showed she was conscious of saying a smart thing.

“I can hardly believe human nature to be so depraved as you would make it out to be, Eva,” remarked Mrs Devitt, who disliked the fact of her unmarried sister possessing sharper wits than her own.

“Oh!  I say, is that your own?” guffawed Devitt from his place on the hearthrug.

“Why shouldn’t it be?” asked Miss Spraggs demurely.

“Anyway,” continued Mrs Devitt impatiently, “she wishes to know if I am in want of a companion, or anything of that sort, as she has a teacher she is unable to keep owing to her school having fallen on bad times.”

“Then she’s young!” cried Lowther, who was lolling near the window.

“’Her name is Mavis Keeves; she is the only daughter of the late Colonel Keeves, who, I believe, before he was overtaken by misfortune, occupied a position of some importance in the vicinity of Melkbridge,’” read Mrs Devitt from Miss Annie Mee’s letter.

“Keeves!  Keeves!” echoed her husband.

“Do you remember him?” asked his wife.

“Of course,” he replied.  “He was a M.F.H. and knew everyone” (everyone was here synonymous with the elect the Devitts were pining to meet on equal terms).  “His was Sir Henry Ockendon’s place.”

The prospects of Mavis Keeves securing employment with the Devitts had, suddenly, increased.

“How was it he came ’down’?” asked the agreeable rattle, keenly interested in anything having to do with the local aristocracy, past or present.

“The old story:  speculatin’ solicitors,” replied Montague, who made a point of dropping his “g’s.”  “One week saw him reduced from money to nixes.”

Mrs Devitt raised her eyebrows.

“I mean nothin’,” corrected Devitt.