"Upon my honour!" said the Rector, solemnly resting the wrist of his cigar-hand upon the black silk vest, and motioning his cheroot impressively, "you are quite mistaken. One syllable I have not heard from Lady Alice upon the subject, nor, indeed, upon any other, for two months or more." "Come, come, Dives, old fellow, you'll not come the inspired preacher over me. Somebody's been at you, and if it was not poor old Lady Alice it was stupid old Gwynn. You need not deny it--ha! ha! ha! your speaking countenance proclaims it, my dear boy." "I'm not thinking of denying it. Old Donica Gwynn did write to me," said the pastor. "Let me see her note?" said Sir Jekyl. "I threw it in the fire; but I assure you there was nothing in it that would or could have vexed you. Nothing, in fact, but an appeal to me to urge you to carry out the request of poor Amy, and not particularly well spelt or written, and certainly not the sort of thing I should have liked anyone to see but ourselves, so I destroyed it as soon as I had read it." "I'd like to have known what the plague could make you come here two days--of course I'm glad to see you--two days before you intended, and what's running in your mind." "Nothing in particular--nothing, I assure you, but this. I'm certain it will be talked about--it will--the women will talk. You'll find there will be something very unpleasant; take my advice, my dear Jekyl, and just do as you promised. My poor father wished it, too--in fact, directed it, and--and it ought to be done--you know it ought." "Upon my soul I know no such thing. I'm to pull down my house, I suppose, for a sentiment? What the plague harm does the room to anybody? It doesn't hurt me, nor you." "It may hurt _you_ very much, Jekyl." "I can't see it; but if it does, that's my affair," said Sir Jekyl, sulkily. "But, my dear Jekyl, surely you ought to consider your promise."