Jinny’s face shaded towards the colour under discussion, and she cried: “Down, Nip,” to that recumbent animal’s amusement. “He nearly jumped on the bonnet-box,” she explained. “He should eat herbs under the dominion of the Sun,” said Miss Gentry. “Nip?” “No—Mr. Flynt. He needs vital spirits.” “Still, ginger is hardly the word,” murmured Jinny. “It looks ginger against his clothes,” persisted Miss Gentry. “Of course a man can’t understand dressing himself.” “Why, he’s better dressed than anybody in Long Bradmarsh—except Mr. Fallow,” said Jinny. Miss Gentry was mollified by the compliment to her pastor. “All the same his coat wrinkles at the shoulders,” she said. “You notice next time.” “I’ve got better things to do than to look at Mr. Flynt’s coat-sleeves,” said Jinny. “And I’ll be going on.” “Well, if you do see him, give him my kind regards,” said Miss Gentry, “and say that any time he’s passing and would like a cup of tea, I’d be glad to discuss the tract I gave him.” “Oh, it’s no use trying to convert him,” said Jinny. “He’s nothing at all.” “Then why did he go to your chapel the other Sunday?” “Did he go?” said Jinny, amazed. “I dare say that’s what has depressed him.” “He not only went, but with your _peculiar_ ideas of the House of God, he had his dinner there!” “Oh, no! Why he was dining at ‘The Black Sheep.’” “Nothing of the sort. A dressmaker has ears.” “But a carrier has eyes. And I saw him there.” “Then I’ll never believe Isabella Mawhood again.” “I hope you haven’t been making her more vanities,” said Jinny, as she slowly turned Methusalem’s nose the other way. “Only a new bonnet, you funny little Peculiar. You see the case was coming on at the Chelmsford Sessions, and I should have got a verdict against Mr. Mawhood not only for his wife’s silk dress, but for the chickens his ferrets killed——” “You issued a replevin, I suppose,” put in Jinny grandly. “I could have had a tort or a subpœna or anything,” assented Miss Gentry, with equal magnificence. “But the defendant thought best to compromise. He’s got to clear this cottage of rats for nothing this winter—you know how they come gnawing my best stuffs—and in return my landlady has to pay for a new bonnet for his wife.” “But Mrs. Mawhood’s silk dress—who pays for that?” asked Jinny mystified. “Oh, Mrs. Mott pays for that.” “But why Mrs. Mott?” “She didn’t want to have a scandal in the community, and your so-called Deacon swore he hadn’t got the money. They make Mrs. Mott pay for everything nowadays.” “It’s too bad,” said Jinny. “And Mrs. Mawhood comes out of it all with her dress paid for and a new bonnet.” “Well, she does become clothes more than her sister-Peculiars, I must say that—present company excepted! That old rat-catcher’s lucky to have got such a young wife for his second, even though he was _her_ third.” “She’s not so young,” said Jinny. “She’s no older than I am,” persisted Miss Gentry. “And born, like me, under Venus.”