For her part Beatrice speculated how long her sister had been in the room. Their conversation had been innocent enough, but it was not one that she would wish Elizabeth to have overheard. And somehow Elizabeth had a knack of overhearing things. “You see, Miss Granger,” said Geoffrey coming to the rescue, “both our brains are still rather waterlogged, and that does not tend to a flow of ideas.” “Quite so,” said Elizabeth. “My dear Beatrice, why don’t you tie up your hair? You look like a crazy Jane. Not but what you have very nice hair,” she added critically. “Do you admire good hair, Mr. Bingham.” “Of course I do,” he answered gallantly, “but it is not common.” Only Beatrice bit her lip with vexation. “I had almost forgotten about my hair,” she said; “I must apologise for appearing in such a state. I would have done it up after dinner only I was too stiff, and while I was waiting for Betty, I went to sleep.” “I think there is a bit of ribbon in that drawer. I saw you put it there yesterday,” answered the precise Elizabeth. “Yes, here it is. If you like, and Mr. Bingham will excuse it, I can tie it back for you,” and without waiting for an answer she passed behind Beatrice, and gathering up the dense masses of her sister’s locks, tied them round in such fashion that they could not fall forward, though they still rolled down her back. Just then Mr. Granger came back from his visit to the farm. He was in high good humour. The pig had even surpassed her former efforts, and increased in a surprising manner, to the number of fifteen indeed. Elizabeth thereon produced the two pounds odd shillings which she had “corkscrewed” out of the recalcitrant dissenting farmer, and the sight added to Mr. Granger’s satisfaction. “Would you believe it, Mr. Bingham,” he said, “in this miserably paid parish I have nearly a hundred pounds owing to me, a hundred pounds in tithe. There is old Jones who lives out towards the Bell Rock, he owes three years’ tithe—thirty-four pounds eleven and fourpence. He can pay and he won’t pay—says he’s a Baptist and is not going to pay parson’s dues—though for the matter of that he is nothing but an old beer tub of a heathen.” “Why don’t you proceed against him, then, Mr. Granger?” “Proceed, I have proceeded. I’ve got judgment, and I mean to issue execution in a few days. I won’t stand it any longer,” he went on, working himself up and shaking his head as he spoke till his thin white hair fell about his eyes. “I will have the law of him and the others too. You are a lawyer and you can help me. I tell you there’s a spirit abroad which just comes to this—no man isn’t to pay his lawful debts, except of course the parson and the squire. They must pay or go to the court. But there is law left, and I’ll have it, before they play the Irish game on us here.” And he brought down his fist with a bang upon the table.