"Fine girl," he said presently to Markworth, as they went out of the room to smoke their cigars in the garden. "Ya-a-s," he replied, spinning out his answer as if he had not quite made up his mind on the subject; "but she's no chicken." He was right, and he ought to know, at all events. Miss Kingscott was "no chicken," either in years or in strength of mind. The evening passed quietly with Tom and his visitor, neither the governess nor Susan being seen again, and the old dowager was especially gracious as bed-time drew nigh. This was fixed at an early hour--ten o'clock. Markworth was presently in his room, and as he undressed he moralised on the events of the day, and the progress of his plot. "Rum, wasn't it?" he soliloquised, "meeting Clara here; but it is a decided pull in my favour. The thing is regularly _en train_ now, and must come off soon. The girl is passable enough, and at all events I don't care. I must risk Tom's anger; but I don't suppose he will mind it much--he's soft, and I can manage him as I like. There's only the old lady, and I hardly know how to wheedle her yet, she's so downright and plain spoken. By Jove! of all the characters I ever met she's one!" In the midst of his meditations a loud authoritative rap came to the door. "Your light?" said a thin, sharp voice, which he instantly recognised as Mrs Hartshorne's. He opened the door, and nearly burst out laughing at the odd figure which presented itself. It was the dowager, clothed in a long white garment, and with an immense frilled night-cap on her head, and two or three candlesticks in one hand, and a huge bunch of keys in the other. "What are you staring like a stuck pig at? Give me your candlestick! All the lights in my house go out at half-past ten o'clock every night. That's my rule, and I won't break it for anyone, I don't care who! Give me your light." Markworth handed the candlestick to the old lady, who presently retreated down the passage with her arms outstretched, looking like the Witch of Endor. "No chance of a cigar here," he said to himself, as he closed the door once more, and jumped into bed. "She would smell it at once; I'd back her nose against a pointer's any day. She's a rum un; of all the characters, by Jove! I ever met, she is one!" And he turned in his bed and slept the sleep of the just, in which the wicked equally share. Volume 1, Chapter VI. CONCERNING CERTAIN YOUNG PERSONS.