This ‘Tragedy of a Cooking-Apparatus,’ as Adrian designated the malady of Hippias, was repeated regularly ever evening.  It was natural for any youth to escape as quick as he could from such a table of stomachs.

Adrian bore with his conduct considerately, until a letter from the baronet, describing the house and maternal System of a Mrs. Caroline Grandison, and the rough grain of hopefulness in her youngest daughter, spurred him to think of his duties, and see what was going on.  He gave Richard half-an-hour’s start, and then put on his hat to follow his own keen scent, leaving Hippias and the Eighteenth Century to piquet.

In the lane near Belthorpe he met a maid of the farm not unknown to him, one Molly Davenport by name, a buxom lass, who, on seeing him, invoked her Good Gracious, the generic maid’s familiar, and was instructed by reminiscences vivid, if ancient, to giggle.

“Are you looking for your young gentleman?” Molly presently asked.

Adrian glanced about the lane like a cool brigand, to see if the coast was clear, and replied to her, “I am, miss.  I want you to tell me about him.”

“Dear!” said the buxom lass, “was you coming for me to-night to know?”

Adrian rebuked her:  for her bad grammar, apparently.

“’Cause I can’t stop out long to-night,” Molly explained, taking the rebuke to refer altogether to her bad grammar.

“You may go in when you please, miss.  Is that any one coming?  Come here in the shade.”

“Now, get along!” said Miss Molly.

Adrian spoke with resolution.  “Listen to me, Molly Davenport!” He put a coin in her hand, which had a medical effect in calming her to attention.  “I want to know whether you have seen him at all?”

“Who?  Your young gentleman?  I sh’d think I did.  I seen him to-night only.  Ain’t he grooved handsome.  He’s al’ays about Beltharp now.  It ain’t to fire no more ricks.  He’s afire ’unself.  Ain’t you seen ’em together?  He’s after the missis”—­

Adrian requested Miss Davenport to be respectful, and confine herself to particulars.  This buxom lass then told him that her young missis and Adrian’s young gentleman were a pretty couple, and met one another every night.  The girl swore for their innocence.

“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.