“And what the deuce is your business, if I may make bold to ask?” said the squire, testily. Tom hesitated for a moment. “I believe, sir, I might describe myself as an individual who lives by his wits—such as they are,” he said at last. “And can you manage to make money by your wits?” asked the squire, with ill-concealed contempt. “A little, sir,” answered Tom. “Enough to find me in food and clothes. Enough to satisfy my few and simple needs.” The squire gave a grunt of discontent, and turned towards the banker, who, ignoring any further notice of Tom, at once broached the interminable subject of local politics—a subject that had a fascination for the squire which he was never able to resist. Tom revenged himself by turning his attention to the opposite end of the table, where sat Miss Culpepper, with her faithful squire, Mr. Edward Cope, in close proximity to her. “They are engaged, I suppose,” said Tom to himself, “or else she wouldn’t let him sit so near her, and glare at her so with those pig’s eyes of his. But I’ll never believe that she can care for a fellow like that. She’s just the kind of girl,” he went on mentally, “that, if I were a marrying man, I should like to win for myself—and, by Jove! he’s just the sort of fellow that I should glory in cutting out. Has he a word of any kind to say for himself, I wonder? At present his whole soul seems given up to the pleasures of the table.” Certainly, Mr. Edward Cope was no Adonis; but he might have been accepted as a very tolerable representation of Bacchus clothed in modern evening dress. For a young man, he was abnormally stout. Already, at three-and-twenty, he had no waist worth speaking of. What he would be ten years hence was a mystery. His dress was usually a compromise between that of a horse trainer and a gentleman. He turned his toes in when he walked, and he had a fat, vacuous face, which, in his case, was a fair index to the vacuous mind within. He was a crack whip, and a tolerable shot—pigeon shooting was his favourite pastime—but much farther than that his intellect did not carry him. He did venture on a remark at last. “I gave Beauty a new set of shoes this morning,” he said. “She didn’t at all like having them put on, and kicked out furiously. Ferris did not half like the job, I can tell you; especially after she sent him sprawling into a corner of his own smithy. I never laughed so much in my life before.” “I can’t see what there was to laugh at, Edward. I hope the poor man was not much hurt.” “Oh, we got some brandy into him, and he came round all right in about ten minutes. I’m going to try Beauty to-morrow in the new dog-cart. You might let me call for you about eleven.” “You may call for me, if you like, but only on one condition: that you drive me over to see how poor Ferris is getting on. “All right. I’ll call. But you women do make such a jolly fuss about nothing.” “What a beautiful sunset, is it not, Mr. Bristow?” said Jane, turning to Tom.