The old Bundock was not, however, to be deceived, on this point at least. “My son is moral, only moral,” he would say, with a sigh. To such a temperament Miss Gentry must needs be antipathetic, and to mark his distaste, Bundock was wont to leave the Colchester packets of tracts as well as the “practical” correspondence at the side door, shedding the light of his countenance only on the landlady. But on this occasion, having a message to deliver as well as a missive and a packet, he performed resoundingly on the green knocker, and Miss Gentry herself, attended by Squibs, her ebony cat, appeared in the narrow, little passage, frenziedly stitching at a feminine fabric. Behind her, through the open back door, was a gleam of blossoming orchard and dangling chemises. “Good morning, Bundock,” she said graciously; “lovely weather.” “It’s all right overhead,” he grumbled, “but underfoot, especially at Frog Farm—whew!” “You had to go to Frog Farm?” she inquired sympathetically. “Yes, but there was a letter for Frog Cottage too. So I—he, he!—I killed two frogs with one stone.” “Two birds, you mean,” said Miss Gentry, embosoming her letter with a romantic air and laying her packet on a chair. She added in alarm: “Would you like a glass of water?” “I don’t need drink,” said Bundock, mastering the apoplectic assault, “it’s other folks that need brains.” “My, were the old Flynts unusually trying?” she asked sympathetically. “They want you to clean the gammer’s bonnet,” he answered brusquely. “That’s not so foolish.” Her needle was moving busily again. “Have you brought it?” “No.” “That does seem foolish.” “I’m not a bonnet-bearer! They want _you_ to fetch it.” “Me! Five miles to clean a bonnet! When I’m so busy! And in all that mud!” “It ain’t so muddy this side o’ Swash End, and it’s not two miles each way by the fields.” “Yes, with horrid cows!” Bundock felt protective. “Cows ain’t bulls.” “Well, I won’t go. You tell Mrs. Flynt she must come to me.” “How can I tell her? I shan’t likely be going that way for months, thank my stars.” Miss Gentry quivered a little at the expression, wondering under what planet he was born. “Well, I’ll write to her,” she said conclusively. “What! And me take the letter!” In his indignation he almost blurted out that the same difficulty of reading it would arise. “Then I’ll tell Jinny to bring the bonnet!” Bundock felt baffled. Instead of cunningly helping the Flynts to get their letter read, he had only secured that minx of a carrier a commission. He scowled at the dressmaker, seeing her moustache as big as a guardsman’s and believing the worst of the legends about it: even that the real reason she left Colchester was that the bristly-bearded oysterman to whom she was engaged had refused to shave unless _she_ did. “I’ll be wishing you a good morning,” he said icily, hitching up his bag.