‘Oil!’ was the Countess’s weary exclamation.  ’I imagined Beckley Court to be your ancestral mansion.  Oil!’

Harry deprecatingly remarked that oil was money.

‘Yes,’ she replied; ’but you are not one to mix oil with your Elburne blood.  Let me see—­oil!  That, I conceive, is grocery.  So, you are grocers on one side!’

‘Oh, come! hang it!’ cried Harry, turning red.

‘Am I leaning on the grocer’s side, or on the lord’s?’

Harry felt dreadfully taken down.  ‘One ranks with one’s father,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ observed the Countess; ’but you should ever be careful not to expose the grocer.  When I beheld my brother bow to you, and that your only return was to stare at him in that singular way, I was not aware of this, and could not account for it.’

I declare I’m very sorry,’ said Harry, with a nettled air.  ’Do just let me tell you how it happened.  We were at an inn, where there was an odd old fellow gave a supper; and there was your brother, and another fellow —­as thorough an upstart as I ever met, and infernally impudent.  He got drinking, and wanted to fight us.  Now I see it!  Your brother, to save his friend’s bones, said he was a tailor!  Of course no gentleman could fight a tailor; and it blew over with my saying we’d order our clothes of him.’

‘Said he was a—!’ exclaimed the Countess, gazing blankly.

‘I don’t wonder at your feeling annoyed,’ returned Harry.  ’I saw him with Rosey next day, and began to smell a rat then, but Laxley won’t give up the tailor.  He’s as proud as Lucifer.  He wanted to order a suit of your brother to-day; but I said—­not while he’s in the house, however he came here.’

The Countess had partially recovered.  They were now in the village street, and Harry pointed out the post-office.

’Your divination with regard to my brother’s most eccentric behaviour was doubtless correct,’ she said.  ’He wished to succour his wretched companion.  Anywhere—­it matters not to him what!—­he allies himself with miserable mortals.  He is the modern Samaritan.  You should thank him for saving you an encounter with some low creature.’

Swaying the letter to and fro, she pursued archly:  ’I can read your thoughts.  You are dying to know to whom this dear letter is addressed!’

Instantly Harry, whose eyes had previously been quite empty of expression, glanced at the letter wistfully.

Shall I tell you?’

‘Yes, do.’

‘It’s to somebody I love.’

‘Are you in love then?’ was his disconcerted rejoinder.

‘Am I not married?’

’Yes; but every woman that’s married isn’t in love with her husband, you know.’

‘Oh!  Don Juan of the provinces!’ she cried, holding the seal of the letter before him in playful reproof.  ‘Fie!’

‘Come! who is it?’ Harry burst out.

’I am not, surely, obliged to confess my correspondence to you?  Remember!’ she laughed lightly.  ’He already assumes the airs of a lord and master!  You are rapid, Mr. Harry.’