“I don’t understand your meaning, Jane Thwaytes,” she said, “and I don’t want to. Talk, indeed! I’d soon talk them if they gave _me_ any of the nonsense going on in the village about _this_ house. Talk, indeed! The idea of people _talking_!” and the irate old woman sniffed and snorted vigorously at the bare idea of a climax so preposterous. Mrs. Thwaytes was terribly distressed. She would not, as she solemnly declared, have had Mrs. Beacham “put out” for the world. It had given _her_ trouble enough, goodness knew, to stop people’s evil tongues. It wasn’t Mrs. John’s fault--that she always _had_ said--that gentlemen _would_ look after her. Mr. Vavasour had made a little free, perhaps, but it didn’t follow that Mrs. John had anything to say to him; anyway, he was to be married in a fortnight, people said and, as far as Switcham was concerned, it was, as everyone must allow, “a good job too.” A good job, in sooth; but the boon would have been a still more precious one to all concerned if the officious widow had been gagged before she could administer that “_harmless_ hint,” and present that _innocuous_ nut to her grand friend to crack. Mrs. Beacham was not one who received ideas with exactly wax-like ease, but once a novel thought took root within her, it would have been as hard to efface it from its granite bed as to destroy letters graven “with a pen of iron on the surface of a rock.” * * * * * “Well, Honey,” said John Beacham, when he met his wife an hour or two afterwards at the doorway of the parlour; he a trifle tired with his hard day’s work, and quite ready for the meal he called his supper, while Honor, her long habit gathered up over her arm, was looking all the fresher and prettier for the exercise she loved, “well, Honey, and how did Lady Meg carry you to-day? Rode her pretty fast, eh? Took her a breather, I suspect, on the downs. I must be looking out for one with more bone for you soon. Women are the deuce and all to ride a horse hard,” he added, with a laugh, as he helped himself to a foaming glass of home-brewed ale. Mrs. Beacham, who had struck Honor as looking more than usually crabbed, here put in her word. “If Honor doesn’t know how to ride, I think she had better give it up,” she said. “I wonder, John, you should like to have your horses ruined with her working them to death.” John was immensely amused at his mother’s remark. It was such an excellent joke, her taking him in earnest. The idea of his kind-hearted, gentle Honor--his wife, who petted and spoilt every living thing that came in her way--being seriously believed capable of riding a great strong horse to death, was to him irresistibly comic.