Walden smiled and passed on.  To Mr. Netlips, the grocer, he confided a few orders for the household supplies during his absence, which that worthy and sapient personage accepted with due attention.

“It is a demonstrable dispensation, Mr. Walden, sir,”—­he said, “that you should be preparing yourself for locomotion at the moment when the house-party at the Manor is also severed indistinguishably.  There is no one there now, so my imparted information relates, with the exception of her ladyship Wicketts, a Miss Fosby and a hired musician from the cells of the professional caterer, named Gigg.”

Walden’s eyes twinkled.  He was always very indulgent to Mr. Netlips, and rather encouraged him than otherwise in his own special flow of language.

“Really!” he said—­“And so they are all gone!  I’m afraid it will make a difference to your trade, Mr. Netlips!  How about your Petrol storage?”

Mr. Netlips smiled, with a comfortable air of self-conscious wisdom.

“It has been absorbed—­quite absorbed,” he said, complacently—­“The board of announcement was prospective, not penetrative.  Orders were consumed in rotation, and his lordship Charlemont was the last applicant on the formula.”

“I see!” said Walden—­“So you are no loser by the transaction.  I’m glad to hear it!  Good-day!  I only intend to be away a short time.  You will scarcely miss me,—­as I shall occupy my usual post on Sunday.”

“Your forethought, Mr. Walden, sir, is of a most high complication,”—­rejoined Mr. Netlips with a gracious bend of his fat neck—­“And it is not to be regretted by the profane that you should rotate with the world, provided you are seen in strict adhesion to the pulpit on the acceptable seventh day.  Otherwise, it is but natural that you should preamble for health’s sake.  You have been looking poorly, Mr. Walden sir, of late; I trust you will beneficially profit by change.”

Walden thanked him, and went his way.  His spirits were gradually rising—­he was relieved to hear that Maryllia’s house-party had broken up and dispersed, and he cogitated within himself as to whether he should go and say good-bye to her before leaving the village, or just let things remain as they were.  He was a little uncertain as to which was the wisest course to adopt,—­and while he was yet thinking about it he passed the cottage of old Josey Letherbarrow, and saw the old man sitting at his door peacefully smoking, while at his feet, Ipsie Frost was curled up comfortably like a kitten, busying herself in tying garlands of ivy and honeysuckle round the tops of his big coarsely-laced boots.  Pausing, John leaned on the gate and looked at the two with a smile.

“Ullo, Passon!” said Ipsie, turning her blue eyes up at him with a confidential air—­“Tum an’ tie up my Zozey-Posey!  Zozey-Posey’s bin naughty,—­he’s dot to be tied up so he tan’t move!”

“And when he’s good again, what then?” said Walden—­“Will you untie him?”