Putting the can within the fender, she gave the cup to Mrs. Float; and at the same time regaled her with an account of the discovery in the register. Mrs. Float, lifting the cup to her mouth with her crippled hands, listened and stared, and for once felt some surprise; whilst Blase Pellet, behind the counter, changing one volume for another, caught a word here and there. "What's that you have been saying about Mr. Raynor?" he demanded, reappearing before Mrs. Trim, after despatching the customer. "I don't believe a word of it." "Then you can disbelieve it," was the tart retort; for Mrs. Trim did not like cold water thrown upon her assertions. "Mr. Baackup himself maarried him; there's his reverence's own name writ to the wedding. "Married him to Miss St. Clare?" "To Miss Margaret St. Clare. That's the pretty one. Don't you go disputing a body's word again, Blase Pellet. Fact es fact. Did you suppose they'd write down a lie? They registers 'ud be pewerly ticklish consarns to sarve out in thaat form." A summons at the other counter with some copper money, called Mr. Blase away again. This time he was wanted to make up a complicated prescription for hair-oil; comprising various choice ingredients. Whilst he was doing it, his thoughts ran in so deep a groove that he scented it with oil of turpentine instead of bergamot. And when the purchaser complained, Mr. Blase, after sniffing and looking, and finding out what he had done, being powerless to alter it, protested that it was a new scent just come down from London. "What a fool I have been!" ran his reflections. "If it is Miss St. Clare that he has been in love with--and married her, too, in secret--it can't have been Rosaline Bell: and when Rosaline said, poor girl, that there was nothing between them, she must have told the truth. And there I've been and gone and stirred up all this blessed commotion about the old man!--and who is to know whether I shall be able to lay it?" At any rate, Mr. Blase Pellet endeavoured to "lay" it. He went forth at once, and earnestly assured every one who would listen to him, that he found he had been mistaken in fancying he had had the dream. It chanced that on this same Monday morning, Frank Raynor was about to depart for London. Whatever disorder might have fastened upon Dr. Raynor, one thing was certain--it fluctuated greatly. And though only a few days had elapsed since the return of Edina, he had so visibly improved, both in appearance and strength, that she thought he was getting well: and Frank felt less scruple in leaving him.