“There has been the cottage of Patience Kite done up again,” said he, “and she has gone back into it, which is unfortunate, for it would have suited me if I work the old quarry.” “But surely it would not be large enough for you, cap’n?” He shook his head. He had finished his glass, and now abstractedly he half filled it with water. “Since poor Arkie died, I’m very lonely. It is fifteen years since I buried my wife. I feel as lonely as does this drop o’ water in the tumbler, without spirits to qualify it.” Mrs. Saltren pushed the whisky bottle towards him. “Mix to your liking, captain,” she said. In old English country dances there is a figure known by the name of l’allemande, which consists of a couple dancing round each other, back to back, after which they join hands and dance down the middle. The allemande lingers on in Sir Roger de Coverley, but is never performed in polite society. It survives in full force in country courtships. We who live in the midst of artificiality of all kinds in our time of roses sigh for the unchecked liberty of the rustic swain and his milkmaid, and kick at the little etiquettes which restrain us within the limits of decorum. But, as a matter of fact, the love-making below stairs is oblique, prosaic, and of a back-to-back description, full of restraints and shynesses, of setting to partners, and allemanding about them. From the contemplation of pastoral pictures in red crayon on our Queen Anne walls, we carry away the notion that country love-making is direct, idyllic, and flowery. It is nothing of the sort. Come, follow the allemanding of this mature pair. “I’ve not yet been to Brighton and seen the Aquarium,” said Mrs. Saltren. “Have you, Captain Tubb?” “Can’t say I have, ma’am. It’s lone work going by oneself to see fishes.” “So have I thought,” said the widow. “And for that reason I’ve not been.” “It is a wonderful consideration,” said the captain, “how fond cats are of fish; and how ill the skin and bones of a salt herring do make a cat! For myself, I like trout.” “Well, so do I!” said the widow. “They’re fresher than salt-water fish, as stands to reason.” “The old lord put trout into the quarry-pond,” said Tubb. “So I’ve heard; and Saltren told me they were monstrous fat and large.” “There is no catching them,” observed the captain; “the water is clear, and they are wary. If ever I pump the pond dry, ma’am, you shall have a dish.” “Trout should be eaten when they are just out of the water,” said Mrs. Saltren; “they lose their flavour when a day old. I suppose it will not be possible for me to have them trout you so kindly offer the same day they are ketched.” “Not possible if you are in London,” answered the captain. “Perhaps you’d best come to Orleigh to eat ’em.” Then ensued a silence, broken at last by Mrs. Saltren, who remarked, with a sigh— “There’ll be no eating of them trout till the pump is got.”