It was long past her usual tea-time, yet she paused a second time to listen, before she raised her first cup of tea to her lips. A covered dish which stood on a brass trivet before the bright coal fire gave forth a savoury smell, and the lamplight which twinkled on sparkling silver and old Nantgarw, discovered more than the tea-equipage. The red moreen curtains were drawn before the windows, a tabby cat purred sleepily on the hearth; in all Bristol was no more cosy or more cheerful scene. Yet Miss Sibson left the savoury dish untouched, and ate the toast with less than her customary appetite. “I shall set,” she murmured, “‘The Deceitfulness of Riches’ for the first copy when the children return. And for the second ‘Fine Feathers Make Fine Birds!’ And”—she continued with determination, though there was no one to be intimidated—“for the third, ‘There’s No Fool Like an Old Fool!’” She had barely uttered the words when she set down her cup. The roll of distant wheels had fallen on her ears. She listened for a few seconds, then she rose in haste and rang the bell. “Martha,” she said when the maid appeared, “are the two warming-pans in the bed?” “To be sure, Ma’am.” “And well filled?” Miss Sibson spoke suspiciously. “The sheets are as nigh singeing as you’d like, Ma’am,” the maid answered. “You can smell ’em here! I only hope,” she continued, with a quaver in her voice, “as we mayn’t smell fire before long!” “Smell fiddlesticks!” Miss Sibson retorted. Then “That will do,” she continued. “I will open the door myself.” When she did so the lights of the hackney-coach which had stopped before the house disclosed first Mary Vermuyden in her furs, standing on the step; secondly, Mr. Flixton, who had placed himself as near her as he dared; and thirdly and fourthly, flanking them at a distance of a pace or two, a tall footman and a maid. “Good gracious!” Miss Sibson exclaimed, dismay in her tone. “Yes,” Mary answered, almost crying. “They would come! I said I wished to come alone. Good-night, Mr. Flixton!” “Oh, but I—I couldn’t think of leaving you like this!” the Honourable Bob answered. He had derived a minimum of satisfaction from his ride on the coach, for Mary had shown herself of the coldest. And if he was to part from her here he might as well have travelled with Brereton. Besides, what the deuce was afoot? What was she doing here? “And Baxter is as bad,” Mary said plaintively. “As for Thomas——” “Beg pardon, Ma’am,” the man said, touching his hat, “but it is as much as my place is worth.” The maid, a woman of mature years, said nothing, but held her ground, the image of stolid disapproval. She knew Miss Sibson. But Bristol was strange to her; and the dark windy square, with its flickering lights, its glimpses of gleaming water and skeleton masts, and its unseen but creaking windlasses, seemed to her, fresh from Lady Worcester’s, a most unfitting place for her young lady.