“A villain has got his deserts,” boomed Mrs. Benson. “My dear, you're going, it seems, and I with you. This is no place for a young lady--no, nor ever was, God be good! I know my place, to all parties; but I know that better--and now it's come upon us like a thief in the night. Well, well, well--my pretty young lady! Old women must put up with what they get, we all know--but not murderers in gentlemen's seats: no, nor beastly doings in and out of doors. I shall go, my dear, when you go--ah, me! When the wicked man ... but he's got his deserts. What! a widower--with duty and pleasure before him, combined for once, and no thanks to him!--to dally with a French doll--movable eyes and separate teeth and all--when he might have gone on his knees to a splendid young lady! And I'd have kept him there to say his prayers, which he's never done before, not since his mother died, poor old gentlewoman, worn out by the gnashings of a tiresome, God-Almighty, wicked old man, and a slip of sin who nothing was too good for. Not in this world, no! But it will be made up to him in the next, by the unquenchable worm--as he'll find out when he tries his 'down, dog' tricks; his 'drop that, will you?' None of that down there in the fire. What says the Book? My dear, my dear,” and she took the girl in her arms with a fine look about her of Niobe amid arrows, “I've a bosom for your head and a roof to shelter us both, and we'll see what we shall see. There's castles and towers for the great oneyers and their minions; but mine is in the Fulham Road, my dear; my own property out of a building society that does business for the widow and the orphan--makes it their special line, as I understand, and have treated me squarely throughout--that I will say. Yes, yes, and I'll tend you fairly, will Sarah Benson, widowed mother of a graceless son, who can feel for her poor dead mistress, mother of a worse. My lamb, you shall want for nothing.” Fast in a good pair of arms, Sanchia snuggled and smiled. She patted Mrs. Benson's cheek, and put up her lips to her. Minnie, like a thawing icepack, ran rivers of water. “You _are_ good to me,” she said; “you _are_ sweet to me. I don't mind anything when I can be sure of such friends. But you mustn't leave, you know. Really, you ought not. I shan't forget you, be sure of that, whether you stay or go.” Mrs. Benson crooned over her, “Oh, you're not one that forgets, my precious, with your golden heart. And there's more than me will find it out.” She wiped her spectacles, breathing on the glasses, and Sanchia shook out her plumage, escaped from the nest. Ingram, without knocking, came into the room. His rage was now cold and keen. He took in conspiracy with one glance at the three. He spoke to Minnie. “I have been ringing for twenty minutes. The brandy in my room, and some soda-water. At once.” Scared Minnie fled. Then he turned half to Sanchia, but didn't look at her.