As she spoke, the door opened, and she looked quickly over her shoulder, to see that Mr Philip Broome had entered the room. He said: “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Cousin Kate, but we stand in imminent danger of being scandalously late for dinner! Unless we set forward immediately, we shall fall under Minerva’s displeasure.”

“Oh, good God, that would never do!” she exclaimed, with would-be lightness. “Have I enough time to scribble a note to Mrs Nidd? I have been asking Mr Nidd if he will be so good as to take it to her, and I promise I won’t keep you waiting above ten minutes!”

“By all means,” he said, casting a glance round the room, and discovering a writing-table. He strode over to it, and pulled open two of its drawers. “Wonderful! Not only paper, but wafers as well, and a pen! And even ink in the standish! In general, when one wishes to write a letter in a posting-house, one finds that there is only a kind of mud at the bottom of the standishes. If you care to sit down here, Kate, I’ll take Mr Nidd down to inspect my horses. You will join us in the yard at your convenience.”

She agreed gratefully to this suggestion; and although it was evident that Mr Nidd was much inclined to dig his heels in, he yielded, after staring pugnaciously at him, to the unmistakeable message in Mr Philip Broome’s eyes, accompanied as it was by the flicker of the smile of a conspirator.

But as soon as Philip had closed the door, he said that he had told Miss Kate that he would be happy to take her letter to the Post Office, but he hadn’t made up his mind to go home, not by a long chalk he hadn’t.

Leading the way down the stairs, Philip said, over his shoulder: “Does she wish you to do so?”

“Yes, she does, sir, and it goes against the pluck with me to do it!” said Mr Nidd, in a brooding tone. “I wouldn’t wish to offend you, Mr Broome, sir, but I been telling Miss Kate that the thing for her to do is to come back with me to London!”

“I shouldn’t think she agreed to that,” Philip commented.

“No, sir, she didn’t,” said Mr Nidd, nipping ahead to hold open the door into the yard. “After you, sir, if you please!—No, she said that she couldn’t leave her aunt in a bang, as you might say, being as how her ladyship had been so kind to her. Which, begging your pardon, I take leave to doubt!”

“True enough. Her ladyship has been more than kind to her.”

“Well, if you say so, sir!—” replied Mr Nidd dubiously. “I didn’t cut my eye-teeth yesterday, nor yet the day before, and you don’t have to tell me you don’t cut no shams, because I knew from the moment I clapped my ogles on you that it was pound-dealing with you, or nothing! But, Mr Broome, sir, I’ll take the liberty of telling you to your head that I ain’t easy in my mind! It don’t smell right to me, somehow!”

Philip did not immediately answer, but after a short pause he said: “Does it make you easier when I tell you that if any danger were to threaten Miss Malvern—which I don’t anticipate!—I should instantly bundle her into a chaise, and restore her to her nurse?”

“You would?” Mr Nidd said, regarding him with obvious approval.

“Most certainly!”

“Well, that’s different, of course!” said Mr Nidd graciously. “If you mean to look after Miss Kate, there’s no call for me to kick my heels here!”

“Thank you!” said Philip, holding out his hand, and smiling. “We’ll shake hands on that, Mr. Nidd!”

“Thanking you, sir!” said Mr Nidd ineffably.

Kate, emerging from the house several minutes later, was relieved to find that her aged well-wisher had apparently formed the intention of departing for London on the following morning. He received from her a hastily written note to Sarah, and stowed it away in his pocket, promising to deliver it as soon as he reached the Metropolis. It was plain that he had been making shrewd, but, on the whole, appreciative comments on the well-matched bays which had just been harnessed to Mr Philip Broome’s curricle; and, on bidding Kate a fond farewell, he was moved to say that he knew he was leaving her in good hands. She hardly knew what to reply to this, but murmured something unintelligible, her colour much heightened, and could only be grateful to Philip for not prolonging the embarrassing moment. As he swept from the yard into the main street, he said conversationally: “A truly estimable old gentleman! A downy one, too! He says it don’t smell right to him. Precisely my own opinion!”

“You did not tell him so?” she asked anxiously. “Oh, no! All I did was to assure him that you were in no danger, and that if it became imperative on you to leave Staplewood I would convey you to London, and hand you over to Mrs Nidd. Why, by the way, did you refuse to go with him?”

“How could I do so?” she demanded. “Whatever my aunt has done, she doesn’t deserve to be treated so shabbily! Good God, Cousin Philip, the clothes I am wearing at this moment I owe to her generosity! Besides,—”

“Yes?” he said, as she broke off. “That isn’t all your reason, is it?”

“No,” she admitted. “Not quite all. You see, before my aunt took me away from Sarah, I had been staying with her for far too long a time—much longer than I had anticipated. I know what a charge I must have been, though she was very angry when I ventured to say so, and told me that if I dared to offer her money for my board she would never forgive me. So I can’t go back to her until I’ve secured a post. When I left Wisbech I thought I should have been able to do so immediately, but—but it turned out otherwise. None of the ladies who were advertising for governesses hired me. Either they wanted an accomplished female, able to instruct her pupils in the harp, and the piano, and the Italian tongue, or they said I was too young. It was the most mortifying experience! I became utterly despondent, and began to wonder whether I might not be able to turn the only talent I possess to good’account.”

’And what is your only talent?” he asked.

’Oh, dressmaking! I did think of seeking a post as abigail to a lady of fashion, but Sarah wouldn’t hear of it. She said it wouldn’t do for me—”

“She was right!”

“Yes, I think perhaps she was: I can’t imagine when a modish abigail finds the time to go to bed! So then I hit upon the idea of seeking employment in a dressmaker’s establishment, but Mr Nidd was strongly opposed to it.”

“I said he was a downy one,” observed Philip.

“Yes, but I still think I might try my hand at it, if all else fails. He says that unless one can afford to set up for oneself, or at .least to buy a share in a flourishing business, there is no possibility of making one’s fortune in the dressmaking line.”

“None at all, I imagine.”

“You can’t tell that!” she objected. “For my part, I shouldn’t wonder at it if you are both wrong. Consider! Even if I had to serve an apprenticeship in the workroom, and subsist for a time on a pittance, I should be bound to rise rapidly to a more elevated position, because I can do more than sew: I can design! I truly can, sir! I have been used to make all my own dresses, and no one has yet called me a dowd! On the contrary ! Mrs Astley’s odious mother said that she marvelled at my extravagance, and would like to know where I found the money to purchase such expensive gowns!” She chuckled. “And the joke was that when she said that, I was wearing a coloured muslin dress which cost exactly eighteen shillings! It was perfectly plain except for a knot of ribbons at the waist, but of excellent cut and style, which, of course, was what misled her. I don’t mean to boast, but doesn’t that show you?”

“I should have to see the garment before I ventured to give my opinion,” he said, his countenance grave, but his voice a trifle unsteady.

She burst out laughing. “What a shocking Banbury man you are, sir! How dare you poke fun at me? Did I sound like a bounce?”

He shook his head gloomily. “Every feeling was offended!” he assured her.

She laughed more than ever, but said: “Seriously, sir—”

“Seriously, Kate, Mr Nidd is right: it won’t fadge!”

She sighed. “Perhaps it might not. Lately I have been wondering if I could not obtain a situation with an old lady. I daresay you know the sort of thing I mean: as companion, or housekeeper, or even the two combined. It would be dreadfully dull, I expect, but at least Sarah wouldn’t kick up a dust, and say it wasn’t a genteel occupation.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t consider being a companion-housekeeper to a gentleman?” he suggested.

“I shouldn’t think so. Sarah would think it most improper, and it would be, you know. Unless he was a very old gentleman. Why, do you know of a gentleman who wants a companion-housekeeper?”

“As it chances, I do. But not a very old one, I’m afraid! I mean he isn’t bedridden, or queer in his attic, or anything of that nature. Not a dotard?

“I certainly shouldn’t consider such a post in a dotard’s house!” she said, amused. “In fact, unless I were offered a handsome wage, which, I own, would tempt me, I don’t mean to consider it at all! An old lady is the thing for me!”

“You cannot have given enough thought to it, Kate! Old ladies are always as cross as crabs!”

“What nonsense!” she said scornfully. “I have known several who were most amiable! And no female is commonly afflicted with gout, which most old gentlemen are, I find. It makes them insupportably cross!”

“The gentleman I have in mind is not afflicted with gout, and I am persuaded you would find him amiable, and—and compliant.”

“Indeed?” said Kate, stiffening. “And how old is this gentleman, sir?”