There was no water on the table. Arnold ordered it of Mr. Bishopriggs--who had remained passive in the back-ground (a model of discreet attention) as long as the mistress was in the room. “Mr. Brinkworth!” said Anne, when they were alone, “you are acting with inexcusable rashness. That woman’s question was an impertinence. Why did you answer it? Why did you force me--?” She stopped, unable to finish the sentence. Arnold insisted on her drinking a glass of wine--and then defended himself with the patient consideration for her which he had shown from the first. “Why didn’t I have the inn door shut in your face”--he asked, good humoredly--“with a storm coming on, and without a place in which you can take refuge? No, no, Miss Silvester! I don’t presume to blame you for any scruples you may feel--but scruples are sadly out of place with such a woman as that landlady. I am responsible for your safety to Geoffrey; and Geoffrey expects to find you here. Let’s change the subject. The water is a long time coming. Try another glass of wine. No? Well--here is Blanche’s health” (he took some of the wine himself), “in the weakest sherry I ever drank in my life.” As he set down his glass, Mr. Bishopriggs came in with the water. Arnold hailed him satirically. “Well? have you got the water? or have you used it all for the sherry?” Mr. Bishopriggs stopped in the middle of the room, thunder-struck at the aspersion cast on the wine. “Is that the way ye talk of the auldest bottle o’ sherry wine in Scotland?” he asked, gravely. “What’s the warld coming to? The new generation’s a foot beyond my fathoming. The maircies o’ Providence, as shown to man in the choicest veentages o’ Spain, are clean thrown away on ‘em.” “Have you brought the water?” “I ha’ brought the water--and mair than the water. I ha’ brought ye news from ootside. There’s a company o’ gentlemen on horseback, joost cantering by to what they ca’ the shootin’ cottage, a mile from this.” “Well--and what have we got to do with it?” “Bide a wee! There’s ane o’ them has drawn bridle at the hottle, and he’s speerin’ after the leddy that cam’ here alane. The leddy’s your leddy, as sure as saxpence. I doot,” said Mr. Bishopriggs, walking away to the window, “_that’s_ what ye’ve got to do with it.” Arnold looked at Anne. “Do you expect any body?” “Is it Geoffrey?” “Impossible. Geoffrey is on his way to London.” “There he is, any way,” resumed Mr. Bishopriggs, at the window. “He’s loupin’ down from his horse. He’s turning this way. Lord save us!” he exclaimed, with a start of consternation, “what do I see? That incarnate deevil, Sir Paitrick himself!” Arnold sprang to his feet. “Do you mean Sir Patrick Lundie?” Anne ran to the window. “It _is_ Sir Patrick!” she said. “Hide yourself before he comes in!” “Hide myself?” “What will he think if he sees you with _me?”_