“Not much, I believe. The Pembertons’ housekeeper, Mrs. Bainbridge, who has lived with them for ages, and who is a great friend of the Clays, recommended Miss Blake, who is her niece, to them as nursery governess to their children, and--” “Governess, indeed! By Jove, what will that class of people come to next? However, I suppose it will be thought a civil thing to go and see John Beacham turned off. There never was a better fellow either in his line or out of it; and then, as I said before, he was such an uncommon favourite of my father.” “Yes, wasn’t he?” Kate said eagerly. She was a little thoughtless child of twelve when Cecil Vavasour died; but the kind father, with his mild face and winning voice, lived in her memory still, had taught her to like and appreciate all that he, in his useful lifetime, had seemed to value. “Wasn’t dear papa fond of the Beachams? How often he used to trudge away over the fields, with the thick ash stick that stands in the corner of the inner hall in his hand, to visit the Beachams at the farm! Poor dear papa! he used to say that he placed John first of the few honest men he knew. But, Arthur dear,” and she put her arm coaxingly within her brother’s, “do you really think that Rhoda will come out this year, and--” “And will Miss Katherine Vavasour, as a natural sequence to that event, beam out upon the London world the year following--a consummation so devoutly to be wished? Upon my word, Kitty, though I am pretty well up to your crafty ways and clever little dodges, you have come to the very last person in the world who is likely even to give a guess at my lady’s plans. And as to asking her--why she would think such questions, especially from the heir-apparent, to the last degree indelicate, presuming--in the worst possible taste, in short. But here comes Horace. He can, perhaps, throw some light upon the matter. He has twice the pluck that I have when it comes to tackling my lady. I don’t think, for some reason or other, that she hates him quite as much as she does me.--I say, old fellow,” he continued, as Horace Vavasour, a fair-complexioned, intelligent-looking young man, came loungingly towards them, with his hands thrust into his trousers-pockets, “do you happen to know anything of the prospects of this cheerful family of ours? Here is Kate, at sixteen and a half--isn’t that about the mark, eh, Kitty?--naturally crazy to know when there is any chance of her being married. Don’t laugh; it’s a serious business, as I have no doubt Rhoda thinks too, though she hasn’t the brass, like you, to ask leading questions on the subject. However, what do _you_ say it is to be? London, or no London? Husbands, or no husbands? It is really time that these poor girls should know their fate.”