“As for Miss Lucy, she haven’t a bit of art in her, nor have he.”

“They’re all nature, I suppose,” said Adrian.  “How is it I don’t see her at church?”

“She’s Catholic, or some think,” said Molly.  “Her father was, and a leftenant.  She’ve a Cross in her bedroom.  She don’t go to church.  I see you there last Sunday a-lookin’ so solemn,” and Molly stroked her hand down her chin to give it length.

Adrian insisted on her keeping to facts.  It was dark, and in the dark he was indifferent to the striking contrasts suggested by the lass, but he wanted to hear facts, and he again bribed her to impart nothing but facts.  Upon which she told him further, that her young lady was an innocent artless creature who had been to school upwards of three years with the nuns, and had a little money of her own, and was beautiful enough to be a lord’s lady, and had been in love with Master Richard ever since she was a little girl.  Molly had got from a friend of hers up at the Abbey, Mary Garner, the housemaid who cleaned Master Richard’s room, a bit of paper once with the young gentleman’s handwriting, and had given it to her Miss Lucy, and Miss Lucy had given her a gold sovereign for it--just for his handwriting!  Miss Lucy did not seem happy at the farm, because of that young Tom, who was always leering at her, and to be sure she was quite a lady, and could play, and sing, and dress with the best.

“She looks like angels in her nightgown!” Molly wound up.

The next moment she ran up close, and speaking for the first time as if there were a distinction of position between them, petitioned:  “Mr. Harley! you won’t go for doin’ any harm to ’em ’cause of what I said, will you now?  Do say you won’t now, Mr. Harley!  She is good, though she’s a Catholic.  She was kind to me when I was ill, and I wouldn’t have her crossed—­I’d rather be showed up myself, I would!”

The wise youth gave no positive promise to Molly, and she had to read his consent in a relaxation of his austerity.  The noise of a lumbering foot plodding down the lane caused her to be abruptly dismissed.  Molly took to flight, the lumbering foot accelerated its pace, and the pastoral appeal to her flying skirts was heard—­“Moll! you theyre!  It be I—­ Bantam!” But the sprightly Silvia would not stop to his wooing, and Adrian turned away laughing at these Arcadians.

Adrian was a lazy dragon.  All he did for the present was to hint and tease.  “It’s the Inevitable!” he said, and asked himself why he should seek to arrest it.  He had no faith in the System.  Heavy Benson had.  Benson of the slow thick-lidded antediluvian eye and loose-crumpled skin; Benson, the Saurian, the woman-hater; Benson was wide awake.  A sort of rivalry existed between the wise youth and heavy Benson.  The fidelity of the latter dependant had moved the baronet to commit to him a portion of the management of the Raynham estate, and this Adrian did not like.  No one