Seeing Miss Finny’s eyes fastened on them, she said: “Well, yes, Maria, I am not ashamed of them! My London bootmaker declared that it was a real pleasure to see a foot of a fine natural size! I know you pride yourself on wearing threes, but I call your feet disjointed deformities. However, about Mrs. Malone. Holroyd left her well off, a pretty widow, with one little boy; she might have left well alone, instead of marrying a good-for-nothing half-pay major.” “But you know, dear, he had a splendid property then,” protested Mrs. Finny, in a piteous tone. “He has no splendid property now,” said Maria sharply; “there will not be an acre for Denis, and serve him right; an idle young scamp, it’s my belief he will never pass for the medical.” “He is the apple of his mother’s eye,” drawled Mrs. Redmond. “She slaves for him, and screws for him, and keeps all his scrapes from the Major.” “And the Major’s scrapes from her son George,” supplemented Maria, with a disagreeable giggle. “Yes, the Major is a sore trial to all that are about him,” resumed Mrs. Redmond. “No one is to spend but himself. He must have good dinners and cigars and wine----” “Whisky, you mean,” interrupted Maria with a snort. “Well, whisky,” impatiently, “and a high dogcart, and curly-brimmed hats and patent-leather boots, but everyone else may live on potatoes and salt, and slave for him like niggers, or he roars like a mad tiger, and no one dare say a word.” “I believe George Holroyd said a good many words to him, the last time he was here,” replied Maria, expressively. “Yes, and he took it out of George Holroyd’s mother, as soon as his back was turned,” whined Mrs. Finny--who always spoke as if she was on the verge of tears--“and he has spent every penny of her fortune. I can’t think how they live at all; the poor things!” “Oh, Mr. Holroyd helps them,” explained Mrs. Redmond. “Jane Bolland, at the Post Office, has often seen his cheques; he has a good private income, besides his pay.” “Miss Dopping,” said Belle, suddenly addressing the old lady, who sat in grim, observant silence, with her purple gloves, exactly crossed on the Death’s-head handle of her umbrella; “you are the oldest inhabitant, and know everything; do tell us all about Mr. Holroyd.” “Stuff and nonsense, Isabella! you are taking me for Jane Bolland. Go to her; _she_ will tell you how many shirts he has to his back, how many cigars he smokes, and how much he owes his tailor; only give her time.” “No, no, I am not thinking of Jane. I want you to tell me--I mean to tell us--what he has a year.” “How should _I_ know?” snarled Miss Dopping. “A thousand?” in a coaxing tone. “Have _you_ a thousand?” very gruffly. “But indeed, dear, he must have something handsome,” pleaded Mrs. Finny, “for he keeps polo ponies and racing ponies in India, and has been very kind to his mother.” “Now, Miss Dopping,” urged Belle boldly, “do be nice to me, do tell me all about him. I am dying to see him.”