‘I had something to ask Miss Anne,’ he said, in a kind of undertone, as if making a remark to himself. ‘What is it, Saymore?’ ‘No, no,’ said the old man, shaking his head. ‘No, no; I am not such a fool as I look. There is no time now for my business. No, no, Miss Anne, no, no,’ he went on, shaking his head as he arranged the cups and saucers. The sun, though it had passed off that side of the house, had caught in some glittering thing outside, and sent in a long ray of reflection into the huge old dark mirror which filled up one side of the room. Old Saymore, with his white locks, was reflected in this from top to toe, and the shaking of the white head produced a singular commotion in it like circles in water. He was always very deliberate in his movements; and as Mrs. Mountford’s step stayed in the passage, and a sound of voices betrayed that she had been stopped by some one on the way, Rose, with ideas of ‘fun’ in her mind, invited the arrested confidence. ‘Make haste and speak,’ she said, ‘Saymore; mamma has stopped to talk to Worth. There is no telling how long it may be before she comes here.’ ‘If it’s Mrs. Worth, it may be with the same object, miss,’ said Saymore, with solemnity. And then he made a measured, yet sidelong step towards Anne. ‘I hope, Miss Anne, you’ll not disapprove?’ ‘What do you want me to approve of, Saymore? I don’t think it matters very much so long as mamma is pleased.’ ‘It matters to me, Miss Anne; it would seem unnatural to do a thing that was really an important thing without the sanction of the family; and I come from my late lady’s side, Miss Anne. I’ve always held by you, miss, if I may make so bold as to say it.’ Saymore made so bold as to say this often, and it was perfectly understood in the house; indeed it was frequently supposed by new-comers into the servants’ hall that old Saymore was a humble relation of the family on that side. ‘It is very kind of you to be so faithful; tell me quickly what it is, if you want to say it to me privately, and not to mamma.’ ‘Miss Anne, I am an old man,’ he said; ‘you’ll perhaps think it unbecoming. I’m a widower, miss, and I’ve no children nor nobody belonging to me.’ ‘We’ve known all that,’ cried Rose, breaking in, ‘as long as we’ve lived.’ Saymore took no notice of the interruption; he did not even look at her, but proceeded with gravity, though with a smile creeping to the corners of his mouth. ‘And some folks do say, Miss Anne, that, though I’m old, I’m a young man of my years. There is a deal of difference in people. Some folks is older, some younger. Yourself, Miss Anne, if I might make so bold as to say so, you’re not a _young_ lady for your years.’ ‘No, is she?’ said Rose. ‘I always tell you so, Anne! you’ve no imagination, and no feelings; you are as serious as the big trees. Quick, quick, Saymore, mamma is coming!’