There was Mr. Lancaster, who ate meat only once a day, drank white wine, and was that gentle and considerate you’d never know he was there except that he did lose his things so, and had a habit of putting his coffee-cup and pipes and newspapers under the valance of the sofa. "Faithful-’earted, I calls ’im!" said Mrs. Cushion. "Every Saturday reg’lar he sends me the _Times_ newspaper, and it is gratifying to see a ’igh-class newspaper like that once a week. It do make me feel like a real lady just to read the rents of them ’ouses on the back page, and it does me no end of good to know who’s preaching at St. Paul’s Cathedral—all the churches, in fact; it’s almost as good as being there." "Wouldn’t you rather have a picture paper?" I asked. "Certainly not, miss," Mrs. Cushion replied with dignified asperity. "I much prefer what Mr. Lancaster reads his-self, an’ it’s the kind thought I values far more than the amusingness of the paper. It seems to keep him an’ me in mind of one another." "Do your boys often send you papers, Mrs. Cushion?" "Well ... not so to speak often.... It’s difficult for them, and I dare say the papers in those parts ain’t like ours. Perhaps they wouldn’t be suitable——" "Is Mr. Lancaster married?" "Not to my knowledge, miss," answered the cautious Mrs. Cushion. "He don’t behave like a married man.... Not"—she added hastily, eager to give no wrong impression—"not that ’e’s ever anything but most conformable; only there’s a difference between them as is married and them as isn’t. I’m sure you see it yourself, miss, though, to be sure, you’re nothing like so set in your ways as some. If I was you, miss," said Mrs. Cushion, suddenly beaming upon me like a rosy sun in spectacles, "I shouldn’t give up hope. Mr. Right may come along for you even yet. I ’ad a friend who married when she were fifty-nine.... To be sure, ’er ’usban’ was bedridden, but ’e’s living to this day, an’ it’s a good fifteen years ago." "I don’t think I should like a bedridden husband, Mrs. Cushion." "You’ll like whatever you gets, my dear, never you fear." And Mrs. Cushion bustled out with the tray, leaving me to the rather rueful reflection that her last speech was more complimentary to my stoicism than to my matrimonial prospects. "Snig’s" was an ideal place to work in: quiet without being lonely; fresh and bracing, yet seldom cold; beautiful with the homely, tender grace of pastoral England. The doctor and his wife "over to Winstone" were hospitable and kind, the villagers were friendly as only peasant folk in the remote Cotswolds still are; the vicar I always look upon as one of the most understanding and delightful people I’ve ever met. That autumn the squire and his large lively family were up in Scotland, but this only increased possibilities of work, and I stayed on at Snig’s into October.