Honor, who had already learned that there is ofttimes wisdom in keeping silence even from good words, proceeded with cheerful alacrity to the execution of one at least of her appointed tasks. The tasteless arrangement of those same “beanpots” had long been to her a source of minor discomfort, and often had she longed to work, with deft and dainty fingers, a reformation in the huge overgrown posies with which it was Mrs. Beacham’s pleasure to adorn the windows of the “best parlour” in the old farm-house. A very snug and pleasant room it was, and would have been a pretty one, could Honor have effected the change she was often planning, namely, that of introducing French windows instead of the old-fashioned lattices, which let in so little light, and impeded the view outside so greatly. And, as if to make the room still darker, there were, ever and always, those dreadful beanpots standing never an inch out of their respective places on the spider-legged pembroke tables in front of the latticed panes. It was wonderful, Honor sometimes thought, how flowers could be made to look so little attractive as those which old Mrs. Beacham was in the habit of packing together for the adornment of her show parlour. The old lady’s floral tastes were of the massive and gorgeous school. She delighted in peonies, and many-coloured dahlias were her passion. Honor had more than once attempted a reform in this delicate branch of household duty; but Mrs. Beacham, who had no opinion of her daughter-in-law’s taste, had hitherto declined her offers, and nothing short of a press of business on the occasion of Mr. Vavasour’s visit would have caused the busy old autocrat to break through a fixed habit of her life.