“I s’pose,”—­said Mr. Buggins, meditatively in reference to this outburst—­“you means, Mr. Netlips, that Miss Vancourt is a kind of heathen?”

Mr. Netlips nodded severely.

“’Cos she don’t go to church?” suggested Dan Ridley, who as usual was one of the tap-room talkers.  Again Mr. Netlips nodded.

“Well,” said Dan, “she came to church once an’ brought her friends—­ -”

“Late,—­very late,”—­interposed Mr. Netlips, solemnly—­“The tardiness of her entrance was marked by the strongest decorum.  The strongest, the most open decorum!  Deplorable decorum!”

“What’s decorum?” enquired Mr. Buggins, anxiously.

Mr. Netlips waved one fat hand expressively.

“Decorum,”—­he said—­“is—­well!—­decorum.”

Buggins scratched his head dubiously.  Dan Ridley looked perplexed.  There was a silence,—­the men listening to the wailing of a rising wind that was beginning to sweep round the house and whistle down the big open chimney, accompanied by pattering drops of rain.

“Summer’s sheer over,”—­said a labourer, lifting his head from his tankard of ale—­“Howsomever, we’re all safe this winter in the worst o’ weather.  Rents are all down at ’arf what they was under Oliver Leach, thanks to the new lady, so whether she’s a decorum or not don’t matter to me.  She’s a right good sort—­so here’s to her!”

And he drained off his ale at one gulp with a relish, several men present following his example.

“Passon Walden,”—­began Dan Ridley—­“Passon Walden—–­”

But here there was a sudden loud metallic crash.  Buggins had overturned two empty pewter-mugs on his counter.

“No gossiping o’ Passon Walden allowed ’ere,”—­he said,—­“Not while I’m master o’ this public!”

“Leeze majestas,”—­proclaimed Mr. Netlips, impressively—­“You’re right, Buggins—­you’re quite right!  Leeze majestas would be entirely indigenous—­entirely so!”

An awkward pause ensued.  ‘Leeze majestas’ in all its dark incomprehensibility had fallen like a weight upon the tavern company, and effectually checked any further conversation.  It was one of those successful efforts of Mr. Netlips, which, by its ponderous vagueness and inscrutability, produced an overwhelming effect.  There was nothing to be said after it.

The gold and crimson glory of autumn slowly waned and died,—­and the village began to look very lonely and dreary.  Heavy rains fell and angry gales blew,—­so that when dark November came glooming in, with lowering skies, there was scarcely so much as a leaf of russet or scarlet Virginian creeper clinging to roof or wall.  The woods around Abbot’s Manor were leafless except where the pines and winter laurel grew in thick clusters, and where several grand old hollies showed their scarlet berries ripening among the glossy green.  The Manor itself however looked wide-awake and cheerful,—­smoke poured up from the chimneys and glints of firelight sparkled