“Oh, pretty well, thank you. Young Hogben is married to Dilly Topham. I must say I never thought _that_ would come off, but it has; and they seem fairly happy. Old Mrs. Topham, however, gave no dowry; she cannot bear to part with a penny, but she sent a present of three jars of mouldy jam, and a broken-down lamp.” “Miss Parrett has been dangerously ill,” supplemented Mrs. Ramsay, “but is better. Old Thunder has bought a donkey and a bath-chair; and oh, sad news indeed!--how _am_ I to tell you?--Mackenzie is no more.” “I can bear up,” he answered, with a short laugh. This was ungrateful, for was it not Mackenzie who had introduced him to Aurea? “He was kicked by a horse, and was killed on the spot,” said the Rector; “I think, Mrs. Ramsay, you show a very unneighbourly spirit.” “But I never considered myself the neighbour of Mackenzie!” she argued, “just the opposite--and he was not an estimable character. A good man should not own a bad dog.” “Oh, well, give a dog a bad name----” “And Mackenzie deserved it,” she interrupted; “he was the village bully. If he met a smaller dog, it was death for the small dog; if one of his own size, he passed on. You know, or you may not know, that, at teas at the Rectory, he sat on the laps of timid ladies, devoured their offerings, and intimidated them with growls--they dared not displace him.” Then, turning her head, “Aurea, we are talking of Mackenzie and his enormities.” “Oh, are you?” she rejoined, with civil indifference. “Yes,” resumed Mrs. Ramsay; “and is not it well known that he attacked a solitary visitor in the Rectory drawing-room--whose furs affronted him--and tore her muff to shreds with ferocious satisfaction? I believe her screams could be heard at the Drum, and she had to be restored with brandy and burnt feathers.” “You would delight Dr. Johnson, my dear lady,” said the Parson; “he loved a good hater.” “Oh, if you only knew how he treated and maltreated my poor paying guests,”--and she looked at Wynyard--“_you_ remember the beagle, and how you doctored him; only for you he would have died.” “Yes; but the beagle survives--Mackenzie is no more. _De mortuis nil nisi bonum._” To hear this chauffeur with a ready Latin quotation in his mouth! What was the world coming to? thought Mrs. Morven, who had finished her tea, and was now playing the part of a dignified audience. “We are all at the Hôtel des Montaignes, Mentone,” continued Mrs. Ramsay; “I want you to come over and see me, will you?” “I should be delighted, but my time is not my own--perhaps I can get off on Sunday. May I write?” “Do; and I shall expect to hear that you are coming to lunch.” “Here is Masham,” he announced, as the muscular, brick-faced gentleman pushed and elbowed his way towards them. “Hullo, Owen, ready to start, eh? We must get a move on.”--“Oh,” to the General, “glad to see you--splendid weather out here, eh?”