How was it possible, Jack often asked himself, that such a woman as Lady Dudgeon could be self-deceived in so simple a matter? On every other subject her ladyship was shrewd and clear-headed to a degree. She could scold her servants, or check her tradesmen's accounts; she could discuss the last fashion in bonnets, or the last bit of gossip anent a neighbour's shortcomings, as effectively and with as much relish as any middle-aged lady in the three kingdoms. And yet with regard to Sir Thomas she seemed so thoroughly in earnest, her admiration of him (while keeping the matrimonial yoke fixed tightly on his shoulders) seemed so genuine, that it was next to impossible to believe that she was merely acting a part in furtherance of certain hidden views of her own. It was a problem that Jack set himself to study from the day of his arrival at Stammars; but at the end of a month he found himself no nearer its solution than he had been at first. Sir Thomas himself was by no means elated by the honour which the electors of Pembridge had thrust upon him. He felt it especially hard that he should have to leave the country, which he loved so much, and be obliged to mew himself up in London during the six pleasantest months of the year. "What do I want with being M.P.?" he would often ask himself, with a sort of mild despair. "When a man has got his cows, and his sheep, and his grass crops, and his wheat to look after, as I have, what more can he want to make him happy? What a fool I must have been to let Matilda persuade me as she did! And then that speechifying! Ugh! Matilda may say what she likes, but I've not got what Cozzard calls 'the gift of the gab;' and if I had, there's far more talking done in the world now than there's any need for. If people would only work more and talk less, we should be all the better for it." The "Cozzard" alluded to was Sir Thomas's factotum and chief business man in all inferior matters. Mr. Kelvin looked after his interests in matters superior. Cozzard was something more than a gamekeeper, without coming up to the modern notion of a bailiff. Being Sir Thomas's foster-brother, he could do and say things that nobody else would venture on, and was more in his master's confidence, and knew more of his master's secrets, than Lady Dudgeon herself. In search of this faithful retainer, Sir Thomas bent his steps this morning towards the stables, after leaving his wife and Mr. Pomeroy. He found Cozzard in the harness-room, smoking a short black pipe and mending a fishing-rod: a spare, grizzled, hard-featured man, in a velveteen coat and gaiters, with an unmistakable something about him that spoke of horses, and dogs, and guns, and a free life in the woods and fields. "Morning, Cozzard," said Sir Thomas. "I've just looked in to tell you that we're off to London next week." "I'm mortal sorry to hear it, Sir Thomas." "So am I sorry, Cozzard--very sorry."