The tranquillity was at that moment disastrously shattered. A bed of shrubbery lay within a few feet of where they sat. What had appeared to be a gnarled stump in its midst now quivered, broadened, fell into a line with the straightening back of Mr. Fletcher. Mr. Marrapit was startled and annoyed. “What are you doing there, sir?” “Snailin',” said Mr. Fletcher gloomily; exhibited his snail. “Snail elsewhere. Do not snail where I am.” “I snails where there's snails.” “Cease snailing. You must have been there hours.” “What if I have? This garden's fair planted with snails.” “Snail oftener. Depart.” Mr. Fletcher moved a few steps; then turned. “I should like to ast if this is to be part of my regular job. First you says 'cease snailin',' then you says 'snail oftener,' then you says 'snail elsewhere.' Snails take findin'. They don't come to me; I has to go to them. It's 'ard--damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a lettuce-leaf.” He gloomily withdrew. Mr. Marrapit's face was angrily twitching. The moment was not propitious for continuing her conversation, and with a little sigh Mrs. Major withdrew. But it was upon that night that she inscribed in her diary: _“Getting on with Mr. M. Should suc. Precip. fat.”_ IV. A last peep, ere we hurry across the bridge, will disclose to us Mr. Bob Chater still pressing upon Mary the attentions which her position, in relation to his, made it so difficult for her to escape. Piqued by her attitude towards him, he was the more inflamed than ordinarily he would have been by the fair face and neat figure that were hers. Yet he made no headway; within a month of the date of his return to Palace Gardens was as far from conquest as upon that night in the nursery. To a City friend, Mr. Lemuel Moss, dining at 14 Palace Gardens with him one night, he explained affairs. “Dam' pretty girl, that governess of yours, or whatever she is,” said Mr. Moss, biting the end from a cigar in the smoking-room after dinner. “Lucky beggar you are, Bob. My mater won't have even a servant in the place that wouldn't look amiss in a monkey-house. Knows me too well, unfortunately,” and Mr. Moss, taking a squint at himself in the overmantel, laughed--well enough pleased. Bob pointed out that there was not so much luck about it as Mr. Moss appeared to think. “Never seen such a stand-offish little rip in all my life,” he moodily concluded. “What, isn't she--?” Bob understood the unvoiced question. “Won't even let a chap have two minutes' talk with her,” he said, “let alone anything else.” Mr. Moss stretched himself along the sofa; rejoined: “Oh, rats! Rats! You don't know how to manage 'em--that's what it is.” “I know as well as you, and a dashed sight better, I don't mind betting,” Bob returned with heat. In some circles it is an aspersion upon a man's manliness to have it hinted that a petticoat presenting possibilities has not been ruffled.