Since, at the entrance of the gentlemen, Constance looked up expectant, and since he has a vague idea that it is part of his share of their bargain to pay her all outward observance and attention, St. John seats himself on the sofa beside her. She sits rather forward, upright as a dart; he leans back, with his arms resting on the sofa behind her. It is not a caress; but, from a little distance, it has the air of one. The old gentleman, rendered surprisingly wakeful by the unwonted incident of the addition of a stranger to his little circle, insists upon hearing a pungent article on Gladstone and the Irish Church, over which he has fallen asleep in the morning, re-read to him by his little white slave. "I am afraid I can hardly see, Mr. Blessington; there is so little light!" she has remonstrated, mildly. "Light!--pooh!" repeats the old gentleman, gaily. "What do young eyes like yours want with light? They ought to be able to see in the dark, like cats. You'll be borrowing Mrs. Blessington's spectacles next--eh, Mrs. Blessington?" "Mrs. Blessington is asleep, Mr. Blessington." "Oh! Go on, then, my dear--go on. Let us hear what they have got to say for these rascally placehunters, who are trying to remove the landmarks of the Constitution for the sake of getting into office." Her long damp evening rambles--rambles on which a mother would have put so decided a veto--have brought back Miss Craven's cold. She has been hoarse all day; and it is a well-known fact that hoarseness always becomes worse towards night: a tiresome little tickling cough interrupts her every moment. Add to which, her attention is completely distracted from the subject in hand by the involuntary and vain effort to catch what Mr. Gerard and his love are saying to one another. She would hardly have been repaid for her trouble had she succeeded. "Had you a good run to-day?" "Yes, rather a quick thing." "Which horse did you ride?" "The grey--one you have not seen. I bought her in Ireland of Brownrigg; _he_ required more of a weight-carrier." "Does she seem likely to prove satisfactory?" "Very: she has a good turn of speed, jumps capitally, and is very temperate." "Was it a large field?" "Middling." "Any one you knew?" "Two or three" (with a yawn). "You are going out to-morrow again, of course?" with a slight attempt at a pout, which is not even perceived by the person for whose benefit it is intended. "No, I think not; it is five-and-twenty miles, and the trains do not fit: one gets lazy in one's old age. I suppose I shall agree soon with Brakespeare, of the --th, who sent seven horses down to Melton last year; and at the end of the season confessed that he hated hunting, and that he thought it a very dangerous amusement." "Really?" answers Constance, who always takes everything _au sérieux_, opening her great eyes.