‘But I want to see the inside so much, Frank; you have described it to me so often. Let us go up and ask if we can go over it.’ The idea of asking leave to go over Chewton Hall was more than Frank could bear. ‘I would much rather not,’ he said. ‘But I want to go, Frank,’ said Millicent, pouting. ‘No one will know us, so what does it matter?’ Frank still shook his head and raised objections. If there was one thing above another he hated, it was asking favours of strangers. Chewton Hall was not a show-place. It boasted no specimens of interesting architecture; it possessed no gallery of paintings. As likely as not, when they reached the door and preferred their request, some flunky of this fellow Tompkinson’s would order them off the grounds. In short, sorry as he was to disappoint his wife, Mr Abbot firmly refused to ask leave to go over the Hall. Thereupon he discovered that he had married a young woman who had no intention of giving him abject obedience. ‘It’s very unkind of you,’ she said. ‘I _will_ go over the place. If you won’t come, I shall go alone.’ She turned away, pushed the lodge-gate open in a most unceremonious way, and was twenty yards up the drive before her husband had recovered from his surprise. At first, he resolved to leave her to her fate; but that seemed an unkind thing to do. After all, she wanted to look over his old home solely for love of him. He could not let her go alone; besides, as he was hesitating, she turned and beckoned to him. So he walked after her. As soon as Millicent had satisfied herself that her husband was following her, she quickened her pace to such an extent, that without actually running, he could not overtake her. Arguing that a man’s running after a woman up a stranger’s carriage-drive was not a dignified preparation to asking a favour, Frank followed his wife at a reasonable pace; and when he came up to her, found her standing at the door of the Hall in conversation with an elderly woman, who was evidently a housekeeper. Frank thought this good woman eyed him very curiously and suspiciously. ‘It’s all right, Frank,’ said Millicent, turning her smiling face to him. ‘We may go over the Hall. Mr Tompkinson is not here at present.’ ‘Please, walk in,’ said the housekeeper, dropping a courtesy. Millicent did so; and Frank followed her, sulkily. He did not approve of the proceedings. As his wife had forced him to the house, he had determined to send his card up to Mr Tompkinson, trusting that his former connection with the place would excuse the liberty he was taking. But he did not like this going behind the man’s back, and felt sure that Millicent had been smoothing the way with a bribe. ‘That’s the drawing-room—the dining-room—library—billiard-room,’ said the housekeeper, jerking her finger at the doors in succession. ‘Please, walk through them; and ring when you’d like to go up-stairs and see the view.’