"You must ask grandpapa," replies the old lady, looking towards her husband, who, with head sunk on chest, lips protruded, and eyes closed, seems at the present moment hardly in a condition to be put through a catechism on any subject; "he has more to say to her than I have. You see it was too great a strain on dear Constance's strength reading to him every day, and he dislikes Gurney's reading" (Gurney is the valet): "he says he never minds his stops, and _bawls_ at him; and so we thought it better to get a person of more education, who would be always on the spot, and---" "And whose strength," interrupts St. John, a little ironically, "unlike Constance's, would be warranted _un-overworkable?_" "Exactly," answers the old lady, innocently. "And she is a satisfactory beast of burden, I hope?" says Gerard, yawning till the tears come into his eyes; "fetches and carries well?" "She seems a nice, quiet, ladylike person enough," replies Mrs. Blessington, leaning back placidly in her chair, with her hands, in black kid half-gloves, lying folded in her lap--"only, unfortunately, over-sensitive: those sort of people always are. Why, it was only yesterday that she rushed from this room with such violence that she nearly shook Constance and me out of our chairs, because I made some slight observation about a brother of hers who died lately, and to whom, it seems, she was much attached. I'm sure I had no intention of hurting her feelings, poor girl!" "Girl!" repeats St. John, laughing; "that means a gushing thing of fifty, I suppose?" "More like fifteen. By-the-by, she said something the other day about having known _you_." "Known me!" cries the young man, opening his quick grey eyes. "Well, 'more know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows.' I never knew any one in my life that had a 'companion'--of this sort, I mean. What may my unknown friend's name be?" But at this juncture, before the name of his unknown friend can be confided to him, the old squire, waking up, urgently requests to be told what they are talking about, which information is communicated, in a succession of long dull roars, into his good ear. St. John takes advantage of the diversion to leave the room, and, running upstairs, knocks at Constance's door. "Constance!" "Who's there?" (Voice rather muffled--from under an avalanche of hair apparently). "I. Can you come out and speak to me for a minute, if you are not in too great deshabille?" "Certainly."