XXIV. Guy Strangways and M. Varbarriere converse 208 XXV. Lady Alice talks with Guy Strangways 215 XXVI. Some talk of a Survey of the Green Chamber 223 XXVII. M. Varbarriere talks a little more freely 230 XXVIII. Some private Talk of Varbarriere and Lady Alice at the Dinner-table 238 XXIX. The Ladies and Gentlemen resume Conversation in the Drawing-room 243 XXX. Varbarriere picks up Something about Donica Gwynn 250 XXXI. Lady Jane puts on her Brilliants 259 XXXII. Conciliation 266 XXXIII. Lady Jane and Beatrix play at Croquet 274 XXXIV. General Lennox receives a Letter 281 XXXV. The Bishop at Marlowe 290 XXXVI. Old Scenes recalled 296 XXXVII. In which Lady Alice pumps the Bishop 304 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER I. Sir Jekyl Marlowe at the Plough Inn. The pretty little posting station, known as the Plough Inn, on the Old London Road, where the Sterndale Road crosses it, was in a state of fuss and awe, at about five o'clock on a fine sharp October evening, for Sir Jekyl Marlowe, a man of many thousand acres, and M.P. for the county, was standing with his back to the fire, in the parlour, whose bow-window looks out on the ancient thoroughfare I have mentioned, over the row of scarlet geraniums which beautify the window-stone. "Hollo!" cried the Baronet, as the bell-rope came down in answer to an energetic but not angry pull, and he received Mrs. Jones, his hostess, who entered at the moment, with the dismantled bell-handle still in his hand. "At my old tricks, you see. I've been doing you a mischief, hey? but we'll set it right in the bill, you know. How devilish well you look! wonderful girl, by Jove! Come in, my dear, and shut the door. Not afraid of me. I want to talk of ducks and mutton-chops. I've had no luncheon, and I'm awfully hungry," said the comely Baronet in a continued chuckle. The Baronet was, by that awful red-bound volume of dates, which is one of the melancholy drawbacks of aristocracy, set down just then, and by all whom it might concern, ascertainable to be precisely forty-nine years and three months old; but so well had he worn, and so cleverly was he got up, that he might have passed for little more than forty. He was smiling, with very white teeth, and a gay leer on pretty Mrs. Jones, an old friend, with black eyes and tresses, and pink cheeks, who bore her five-and-thirty years as well almost as he did his own burthen. The slanting autumnal sun became her, and she simpered and courtesied and blushed the best she could.