‘Why, Nanny has been busy ironing this evening; but I think I’ll take him to her now.’ And Mrs. Barton glided towards the kitchen, while her husband ran up-stairs to put on his maize-coloured dressing-gown, in which costume he was quietly filling his long pipe when his wife returned to the sitting-room. Maize is a colour that decidedly did _not_ suit his complexion, and it is one that soon soils; why, then, did Mr. Barton select it for domestic wear? Perhaps because he had a knack of hitting on the wrong thing in garb as well as in grammar. Mrs. Barton now lighted her candle, and seated herself before her heap of stockings. She had something disagreeable to tell her husband, but she would not enter on it at once. ‘Have you had a nice evening, dear?’ ‘Yes, pretty well. Ely was there to dinner, but went away rather early. Miss Arabella is setting her cap at him with a vengeance. But I don’t think he’s much smitten. I’ve a notion Ely’s engaged to some one at a distance, and will astonish all the ladies who are languishing for him here, by bringing home his bride one of these days. Ely’s a sly dog; he’ll like that.’ ‘Did the Farquhars say anything about the singing last Sunday?’ ‘Yes; Farquhar said he thought it was time there was some improvement in the choir. But he was rather scandalized at my setting the tune of “Lydia.” He says he’s always hearing it as he passes the Independent meeting.’ Here Mr. Barton laughed--he had a way of laughing at criticisms that other people thought damaging--and thereby showed the remainder of a set of teeth which, like the remnants of the Old Guard, were few in number, and very much the worse for wear. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘Mrs. Farquhar talked the most about Mr. Bridmain and the Countess. She has taken up all the gossip about them, and wanted to convert me to her opinion, but I told her pretty strongly what I thought.’ ‘Dear me! why will people take so much pains to find out evil about others? I have had a note from the Countess since you went, asking us to dine with them on Friday.’ Here Mrs. Barton reached the note from the mantelpiece, and gave it to her husband. We will look over his shoulder while he reads it:-- ‘SWEETEST MILLY,--Bring your lovely face with your husband to dine with us on Friday at seven--do. If not, I will be sulky with you till Sunday, when I shall be obliged to see you, and shall long to kiss you that very moment. Yours, according to your answer, ‘CAROLINE CZERLASKI. ‘Just like her, isn’t it?’ said Mrs. Barton. ‘I suppose we can go?’ ‘Yes; I have no engagement. The Clerical Meeting is to-morrow, you know.’ ‘And, dear, Woods the butcher called, to say he must have some money next week. He has a payment to make up.’ This announcement made Mr. Barton thoughtful. He puffed more rapidly, and looked at the fire. ‘I think I must ask Hackit to lend me twenty pounds, for it is nearly two months till Lady-day, and we can’t give Woods our last shilling.’