“Directly,” was the prompt reply of the woman whom Honor, though she could not have told the reason why, liked less well every time she saw her. And Mrs. Casey was as good, and indeed, to Honor’s annoyance, even better than her word; for with “the tea,” which made its appearance in the form of battered Britannia metal, cracked and cemented crockery, damp bread, and sky-blue milk, came in due form, and with a manner that was decidedly patronising, the landlady herself. Seating herself on the comfortless little sofa by Honor’s side, the Widow Casey (Honor might, if she had cared to listen, have speedily known a good deal concerning that respectable person’s antecedents) commenced a series of what _she_ imagined to be highly ingenious and diplomatic queries regarding her lodger’s birth and parentage, her education and her antecedents. To the best of her ability, Honor warded off the danger of making any direct reply to these troublesome investigations. She had taken the precaution to remove her wedding-ring, and could therefore pass herself off as Miss Blake, an orphan whose friends were tired of supporting her, and who was therefore desirous of finding her own living in the best way she could. The person she was expecting was a _married_ gentleman. Honor laid especial stress on that fact, though it was quite evident that Mrs. Casey’s “O, indeed!” did not proclaim any very satisfactory effect produced upon _her_ mind by the knowledge of Mr. Vavasour’s connubial condition. After that trifling episode, the self-invited visitor remained for a good hour, as if glued to the piece of furniture of which she had taken uninvited possession; and it was owing to no absence of loquacity on her part if, before that hour was over, Honor was not well aware of certain interesting portions of her landlady’s family history--namely, that she too had the bad luck to be an “orphan;” that Casey, poor fellow, loved his drop, which was often a loss and a hindrance to _her_ well-doing; that her favourite son had been drowned at sea, and her daughter had just five months before married a gentleman in the surveying line, who had his horse and shay, and could keep her, bless you! like a lady. CHAPTER XVIII. JOHN DISCOVERS HIS LOSS. Four o’clock had long ago struck,--for those were busy times for John, and people who could not be put off came to him at all hours on matters connected with his _industrie_,--four o’clock had long ago struck before John’s hearty voice--it was the kind of voice that sent a feeling of serenity through the whole house in which it had a right to resound--made itself heard in the hall and passages of Pear-tree House. “Mother! Hallo! O, there you are.” And then it was, “Where’s Honor, mother? Upstairs, eh?”