Isn’t that a Snob’s Paradise?--that’s what it’s called, Ada.” And away she went, singing a “Tyrol, tra la, la lira!” with a voice that seemed to ring with joy. Ada called to her to come back; but she never heeded, and fled down the garden and was soon lost to view. Meanwhile, the carriage had reached the door, and as Ada rushed forward to greet it, she stepped back with dismay, for, instead of Sir Within’s spruce britschka, it was an old post-chaise, from which descended the well wrapt-up figure of Mr. M’Kinlay. “Delighted to see you, Miss Ada; how you’ve grown since I was here--quite a young woman, I declare!” The last words were in soliloquy, for Ada, not aware that he had seen her, had betaken herself to flight to acquaint Mademoiselle of his arrival. “Glad to see you again, Sir, in these parts,” said Rickards, as he caught up the smallest item of the luggage by way of assisting the traveller. “You had a pleasant journey, I hope, Sir?” “So-so, Rickards--only so-so. It’s not the time of year one would choose to come down amongst the Welsh mountains; bitterly cold it was this morning early.” “We’ll soon warm you, Sir; come into the dining-room. You haven’t had breakfast, I’m sure.” “Nothing--not as much as a cup of tea--since four o’clock yesterday.” “Dear me, Sir, I don’t know how you bear it. It’s what I remarked to Sir Gervais. I said, ‘There’s Mr. M’Kinlay, Sir,’ said I, ‘he goes through more than any young gentleman in the grouse season.’” “Well, I’m not so very old, Rickards--eh?” “Old! I should think not, Sir--in the very prime of life; and I declare, of an evening, Sir, with your white waistcoat on, I’d not guess you to be more than--let me see----” “Never mind the figure. Ah, this is comfortable; capital old room, and a good old-fashioned fire-place.” While the lawyer held his half-frozen hands to the fire, Rickards drew a little table close to the hearth, and, with the dexterity of his calling, arranged the breakfast-things. “A hot steak in one moment, Sir, and a devilled kidney or two. Excuse me, Sir, but I’d say a little mulled claret would be better than tea; mulled, Sir, with just one table-spoonful of old brandy in it--Mr. Grenfell’s receipt.” “No man should know better, Rickards.” “Ah, Sir, always sharp--always ready you are, to be sure!” And Rickards had to wipe his eyes as he laughed at the repartee. “And how do you get on here, Rickards?” said M’Kinlay, in a tone evidently meant to invite perfect confidence, and as evidently so interpreted, for, though the door was closed, Rickards went over and laid his hand on it, to assure himself of the fact, and then returned to the fireplace.