"Oh, my lady, they always say the same thing. I think men are very much the same all over the world. They say ’It’s a fine day,’ even if it’s raining, and of course it is, and they say they want to walk a little way with me (begging your pardon), and that I am very beautiful, and that they have long loved me, if you please, my lady, and have been trying to speak about it for years. And I tell ’em I don’t want ’em, and I don’t, to be sure, though one (he’s on the _Piccadilly Circus Gazette_) is a very handsome man with a heagle’s glance, dressed in gray tweeds. And they won’t be put off, I assure you, my lady. Men on newspapers are hextremely persevering with a fine flow of language. And if, being persuaded to take a little walk, for they are difficult to put off by trade, I do take one, they begin to ask, begging your pardon, I’m sure, my lady, if I am your sister, and I’m sure I’m as like you as a butterfly is to a beetle, as Mr. Bunting says, though he adores the ground I walk on, if he’s to be believed, which I’m not sure of yet, and the butler is very angry with me about the whole affair. And one, who said he was the editor of the _Times_, which I don’t believe in the least, because it doesn’t seem likely, does it, my lady, that the editor of the _Times_ would do such things himself? said he wanted to marry me and put me on the staff as his lovely bride. I must say he spoke most beautifully, and he said he knew Captain Goby, and also Mr. Gordon, and he said they were getting thin he thought. And another, quite the gentleman, though by his trousers poor and careful, said he owned most of the _Daily Telegraph_. And I couldn’t help looking at his clothes. He was very quick, and said that was owing to the competition of the half-penny papers. Would I save the _Daily Telegraph_ from himpending ruin by telling him which it would be, he said. And I said flatly that I wouldn’t. I never saw such wicked impudence. Oh, yes, my lady, your hair’s done now, and it’s as lovely as a dream." And, as Miss Weekes finished, she wondered, quite as much as any of the newspaper men, who it was to be. "It’s my belief," she said to Timothy, a little later, "that my lady is beginning to incline to one of ’em. I’ve noticed she’s quieter like and more gentle. And there’s a soft sadness in her eye and a colour that comes and goes." "There ain’t one of the biling worthy of her," said Timothy, bitterly. "But there, Miss Weekes, there ain’t no man worthy of a real beautiful, good lidy. A fair wonder how I dares to hope that some day far off, when motor-cars has killed every ’orse, you’ll be Mrs. Bunting." "It’s a great come down, Tim," said Harriet. "Mr. Gubbles says he wonders, too." "If he wasn’t the butler, and old, I’d plug ’im," said Timothy, crossly. "It’s all right for me to wonder, but he ain’t in it."