Marian laid herself out at once for callers, and very soon the callers began to drop in. About the fourth day after they had settled into their new house, she was sitting in the big, bare, tropical-looking drawing-room—a great, gaunt, spare barn, scantily furnished with a few tables and rocking-chairs upon the carpetless polished floor—so gaunt, that even Marian’s deft fingers failed to make it at first look home-like or habitable—when a light carriage drew up hastily with a dash at the front-door of the low bungalow. The young bride pulled her bows straight quickly at the heavy, old-fashioned, gilt mirror, and waited anxiously to receive the expected visitors. It was her first appearance as mistress of her establishment. In a minute, Thomas, the negro butler—every man-servant is a butler in Trinidad, even if he is only a boy of twenty—ushered the new-comers pompously into the bare drawing-room. Marian took their cards and glanced at them hastily. Two gentlemen—the Honourable Colonial Secretary, and the Honourable Director of Irrigation. The Colonial Secretary sidled into a chair, and took up his parable at once with a very profuse and ponderous apology. ‘My wife, Mrs Hawthorn, my wife, I’m sorry to say, was most unfortunately unable to accompany me here this morning.—Charmingly you’ve laid out this room, really; so very different from what it used to be in poor old Macmurdo’s time.—Isn’t it, Colonel Daubeny?—Poor old Macmurdo died in the late yellow fever, you know, my dear madam, and Mr Hawthorn fills his vacancy. Excellent fellow, poor old Macmurdo—ninth judge I’ve known killed off by yellow fever in this district since I’ve been here.—My wife, I was saying, when your charming room compelled me to digress, is far from well at present—a malady of the country: this shocking climate; or else, I’m sure she’d have been delighted to have called upon you with me this morning. The loss is hers, the loss is hers, Mrs Hawthorn. I shall certainly tell her so. Immensely sorry.’ Colonel Daubeny, the Honourable Director of Irrigation, was a far jauntier and more easy-spoken man. ‘And Mrs Daubeny, my dear madam,’ he said with a fluent manner that Marian found exceedingly distasteful, ‘is most unfortunately just this moment down—with toothache. Uncommon nasty thing to be down with, toothache. A perfect martyr to it. She begged me to make her excuses.—Mr Hawthorn’—to Edward, who had just come in—‘Mrs Daubeny begged me to make her excuses. She regrets that she can’t call to-day on Mrs Hawthorn.—Beautiful view you have, upon my word, from your front piazza.’ ‘It’s the same view, I’ve no doubt,’ Edward answered severely, ‘as it used to be in the days of my predecessor.’ ‘Eh! What! Ah, bless my soul! Quite so,’ Colonel Daubeny answered, dropping his eyeglass from his eye in some amazement.—‘Ha! very good that—confoundedly good, really, Mr Hawthorn.’