"Miss Craven!" announces the butler, opening a tall door; and Miss Craven, plucking up heart, marches into a high, dark library, lined with high, dark books--marches in, looking very much like a chimney sweep. Dust lies in ridges on her once white bonnet; dust, instead of belladonna, in streaks under her eyes; dust on the parting of her hair, on her eyelashes, up her nose (on which there is also, though, happily for her, she does not know it, a large smut), and a double portion of dust on the great, faded, yellow roses, to which she cleaves with as much pertinacity as the idiot in "Excelsior" clave to that senseless banner which he was so determined to run up hill with. As she enters, a goddess rises like an exhalation (as Pandemonium did), and comes floating on lilac clouds towards her. This is as things seem to her; in reality, a large, fair, young woman comes forward in a long-tailed mauve muslin. Simultaneously a man's two legs are seen disappearing over the window-sill. "How do you do?" says the goddess, sweetly. "I think the train must have been rather late; we expected you half an hour ago." "Yes." A little pause, each taking stock. "Won't you have some tea?" "Thanks." The tea is poured out; it has been standing on the table an hour, and is perfectly cold. The goddess and the little female collier examine each other stealthily. "Rather alarming," thinks the latter: "talks in such a low voice, and has such a difficulty in pronouncing her _r_'s. So that is the correct thing, is it? Well, I'll always call Robert _Wobert_ for the future." "Might be pretty, if she were not so filthy," thinks the other. "Same age as I am, indeed! She looks five years older." "I think, if you don't mind, we had perhaps better be going to dress. Sir Thomas is so very particular as to punctuality." "Is he? was that Sir Thomas that got out of the window just as I came in?" "Oh no! that was St. John." ("St. John! What a pretty name! How much prettier than Bob!") * * * * * Sir Thomas Gerard is walking up and down the library, with his watch in his hand, prepared the instant the clock strikes to ring the bell violently, and inquire what is the meaning of dinner being so late. Sir Thomas is a big man, who affects the country squire, the good, old English gentleman--plain Sir Thomas, without any nonsense about him; dresses to the character, and succeeds in looking not unlike the Frenchman's idea of an English _milord_, as depicted in _Punch_ some years ago, where he is represented in low-crowned hat and breeches, with the face of a truculent butcher, cracking a whip, and exclaiming, with equal coherency and elegance, "Rosbif! I send my wife to Smiffel! God dam!"