"Who did you say had taken the room, Julia? Mr. Brown? Why should _he_ take it?" "You can go and ask him why." "I would not let it to him," said Alletha, earnestly. "Don't; pray don't." Down went the knitting with a fling. "Now just you explain yourself, Alletha Rye. What has the man done to you, that you should put in your word against his coming in?" "Nothing." "Oh! Then why should he _not_ come pray? His worst enemy can't say he's not respectable--after being for years confidential clerk to Greatorex and Greatorex. Do you hear?--what have you to urge against his coming?" Alletha Rye was at a loss for an answer. The real reason she dared not give; and it was difficult to invent one. But the taxed brain is wonderfully apt. "It may not be agreeable to Mr. Yorke." Mrs. Jones was never nearer going into a real passion: and, in spite of her sharp tongue, passion with her was exceedingly rare. She gave Alletha what she called a taste of her mind and it was rather a bitter one while it lasted. Mrs. Jones did not drop it easily, and it was she who broke the ensuing silence. "Don't bring up Mr. Yorke's name under any of your false pretences, Alletha Rye. _You_ have taken some crotchet in your head against the man, though I don't know how or when you can have seen him, just as you did against Parson Ollivera. Anyway, I have accepted Brown as tenant, and he comes into possession tomorrow night." "Then I may as well move my work out at once," said Alletha, meekly, taking up a candle. She went into the back parlour, and caught hold of an upright piece of furniture, and pressed her aching head upon it as if it were a refuge. The candle remained on the chest of drawers; the work, lying about, was ungathered but she stood on, moaning out words of distress and despair. "It is the hand of fate. It is bringing all things and people together in one nucleus; just has it has been working to do ever since the death of John Ollivera." But the events of the evening were not entirely over, and a word or two must be yet given to it. There seemed to be nothing but encounters and re-encounters. As Mr. Butterby was walking down the street on his departure, turning his eyes (not his head) from side to side in the quiet manner characteristic of him observing all, but apparently seeing nothing, though he had no object in view just now, there came up a wayfarer to jostle him; a tall, strong young man, who walked as if the street were made for him, and nearly walked over quiet Mr. Butterby. "Halloa!" cried Roland, for it was nobody else. "It's you, is it! What do you do up here?" Roland's tone was none of the pleasantest, savouring rather of the haughty assumption of old days. His interview with Gerald, from which he was hastening, had not tended to appease him, and Mr. Butterby was as much his bête noire as he had ever been. The officer did not like the tone: he was a greater man than he used to be, having got up some steps in the official world.