At length the door creaked up-stairs, and a rustling overhead betokened that such preparations were completed as she had undertaken for Bromley’s reception. A note in G was heard quavering—as though in innocence of heart. “Bravo, my songstress,” murmured, or rather soliloquised, Bromley. “Now for the roulade;” and there sure enough it came. “And now for Floreski as she comes down-stairs.” The thoughts of no medium could have been more rapid. The voice, or rather the remnant of a voice, descended the stairs slowly and musingly, warbling that well-known and beautiful romance, “Adieu, my Floreski, for ever, And welcome the sorrows I prove. Why, Fate, still delights thou to sever Two bosoms united by love?” The last notes floated in the air as the door opened, and in rushed Mrs Magens nicely got up in a drab silk dress. “How d’ye _do_, Mr Bromley, my kyind friend?” She held out both hands, and emphasised the “_do_,” after the manner of genteel comedy. “Charming as ever, or may I be freckled,” responded Bromley, in the same tone. “’Tis ages since we met. Let me look at ye.” She drew him towards the window, and scanned his features anxiously. “A shade of care has fallen across that brow since last we met. Let’s see how long ago is it? A year—no—can it be? Time spares us not, Mr Bromley.” “It spares the beautiful Magens.” “Flatterer—the same as ever—the same gay-hearted, kyind——” “A truce, I beseech ye,” broke in Bromley. “In yonder basket I have brought an offering I fain would make your household deities—some few articles, little luxuries, sent me from the country.” The country always served as a veil in which to envelope Bromley’s presents to Mrs Magens. Had he avowed the purchase, she would have been offended or feigned offence. But the country saved her pride. “From the country, Mr Bromley—from some kyind old aunt, I warrant me, or, mayhap, a grandmother. Jane!” “Women are ever thoughtful, lady,” responded Bromley. Jane entered the room. “Open the basket, maiden.” “I knowed as it was full of good things.” “Pity the poor vulgarian!” “Ingins, I do declare!” cried the maiden. “My, what fine ingins!” “The produce of your land, doubtless, Mr Bromley.” “And sprats—oh my!” The mouth of Mrs Magens was watering beyond concealment. “And lobsters—oh my, what lobsters!” Mrs Magens could stand it no longer. “The cares of a household do not degrade a woman, Mr Bromley. B’ your leave, I’ll go and see them lobsters properly served up.” “Perhaps you will allow me to partake your meal?” “Of course,” screeched Mrs Magens from the adjacent kitchen, where, had Bromley seen her, he would have discovered the skirts of her garment already pinned round the waist of the neat-handed Phyllis.