“I could stomach a day or two here, John, with great contentment,” he said; “for the thought of those Sussex roads at night make me bless God for the burning logs, although it is October. My Lord Montague can come to me while we enjoy ourselves. Let us consider what there is to be seen in this part of Sussex. Ha, so—let us call up mine hostess’s daughter and hear what she has to say.” There was no bell in the parlor, but Mr. Pepys improvised a gong with the bottom of a big brass candlestick and the poker. But since this most martial clashing did not bring the damsel, he went to the stairs-head and called over the balusters: “Betty—Betty, my dear.” Petticoats bustled up the stairs, and the daughter of the house appeared with a tray held like a buckler across her bosom. Mr. Pepys made her a polite little bow. “We shall be beholden to you, my dear, if you will tell us how we may be amused to-morrow. Are there any gentlemen’s houses worth a ride in the neighborhood?” Mr. Pepys retreated backward into the room as though desirous of drawing the girl after him. “There is the Abbey, sir.” “The Abbey!” And Mr. Pepys tossed the suggestion aside as superfluous. “I shall see enough of it, Betty, when my Lord Montague reaches us. Are there any houses hereabouts where murder has been committed, or a plot hatched, or a king been entertained. We like to see the shows.” The girl leaned against the door-post with the tray lodged jauntily upon one hip, and her green stays with their red laces showing off a very embraceable figure. “There is Bodjam Castle, sir.” “Bodjam—Bodjam. What a name, my dear, for a cobbler! It likes me little.” And he admired the red petticoat and the green stays. “Hastings Town—and Castle, sir.” “Fish and old stones! No, John, eh; no Betty. Try me again.” “Perhaps Rye Town would please you, sir.” “A wry road, no doubt, which is more than your figure is, my dear; not wry, I mean, but trim as—well—just what you please.” The girl laughed, perked up her chin, and glanced at John Gore as though he looked a sturdy fellow, and as though she expected him to wink. “There is Pevensey, sir, where the King landed, and Thorn House, and Hurstmonceux.” “Ah, Hurstmonceux, and Thorn, did you say? Thorn belongs to the Purcells, John, surely?” “Yes, Mr. Pepys—” “Pat off the tongue—Patrick Pepys shall be patted!” “No one ever goes to Thorn, sir; there is nothing to see but ravens.” “Hurstmonceux is a pretty word, my dear. Say it again; I like to see your lips pout out. What! giggling? Now, dear soul, what is there to laugh at? I am an old bachelor, as this gentleman will tell you. And, Betty, don’t forget the warming-pan, will you, my dear?”