“O, there is milady at last,” the former exclaimed, as Honor, escorted by Mr. Vavasour, advanced slowly towards them. “You’ve been a pretty time away, Mrs. John; and here ’ave I been looking for you everywhere.” She spoke very crossly, an irritability occasioned not only by Honor’s short absence, which the old lady had magnified into five times its actual length, but by the “incivility,” as she called it, of Mr. Arthur, who, instead of staying to say something “pretty,” had, after making what she supposed he considered a “fine bow,” taken himself off to some of his “great acquaintances;” a slight which Mrs. Beacham did not appear very likely soon to look over. “I’m sorry I went away, and sorrier still if you’ve been wanting me,” Honor said good-humouredly. “Mr. Vavasour wanted to show me a tree--such a beautiful one!--I forget its name; but if you would like to see it, I could find the way again. The branches all feather down to the ground, and the leaves are so wonderfully green! I shall ask John to have some at the Paddocks.” “Humph! I don’t fancy that John will care to indulge you much with anything when he hears of your goings-on.” “Goings-on!” repeated Honor almost mechanically, for she was too much astonished by this sudden attack to answer coherently. “I don’t quite understand--really I don’t. I did not know I was doing wrong when I walked a little way with Mr. Vavasour. I would not have gone for anything in the world if I had thought that you or John would have minded it.” At that moment John himself, looking a little warm and discomposed, strode up the rising ground towards the spreading lime-trees under which the old lady, hugging closely her wrath and jealousy, was grimly waiting his approach. John was the kindest-hearted man alive. He would not wantonly hurt the feelings even of an enemy (always supposing him to have owned such a commodity); but Honor had not been married three months without discovering that her husband was what is called “hasty,” and that in those exceptional moments when he was a trifle “put about,” the wisest plan was to leave him alone till he should have recovered himself. Mrs. Beacham, however--whether owing to the absence of perceptive qualities, or from an idea that her son was not too old to be spoilt by over-indulgence--went on different tactics, and generally (at least so it appeared to Honor) chose the occasions when poor John was not quite himself to “touch him up,” as the good man would himself have said, “on the raw.” “Well, John, I must say you’ve taken your time,” the old lady, in conformity with this judicious practice, was beginning; but her son, who, as a rule, was accustomed to let his mother “have her fling,” stopped her further speech by an authoritative wave of his hand, while he said in a louder voice than he had ever yet used to Honor (they were comparatively alone, for the gossip had moved away when matters begun to look serious between Mrs. John and the old lady):