“A bit, sir—’ere an’ theer,” admitted Mr. Potter, “by reason of a quick-set as happed in my road. But gimme a glass o’ grog, chilled, Peter, an’ soap an’ water, an’ I’ll be never naun the worse, I rackon.” And, making a leg, he limped away on Mr. Bunkle’s ready arm. “A memorable afternoon, Hector!” quoth Sir John. “In Sussex one truly lives these days! Paris? London? What be these to Alfriston? And now, come your ways.” “Whaur awa’, John?” “To visit Rose’s aunt.” “Na, na, John. D’ye no’ ken she’s a widow? Forbye, she’s a wee person, an’ none sae ill-lookin’——” “You have seen her, then?” “Glimpsed her, lad, from ayont the party wall. She’s my neighbour, y’ ken.” “Why, then, come and meet her.” “An’ her a widow-body, an’ me new shaved!” “Shaved, Hector?” “Aye! When fresh shaved I’m no’ sae ill-lookin’ mysel’, d’ye see, John. An’ I was ever a cautious body, as ye ken weel. So I’ll juist bide here an’ smoke a pipe wi’ Geordie Potter.... But, John”—and here Sir Hector’s English became precise—“there is a matter hath troubled me this week and more. John, she is a sweet, good maid, though mayhap a little overbearing now and then, and much above her condition.” “Meaning Rose?” “Herself, John ... you—you see her very often of late.... And, minding her station in life and yours, I would ask ye, John, as one who loves you and respects yon maid, are you ... making love to her?” “As often as possible, Hector!” “As John Derwent?” “Yes, Hector.” “O John ... O Johnnie lad! Can ye no leave purity and innocence alone?” “Not when I want ’em in a wife.” “Wife,” ejaculated Sir Hector, falling back a step in sheer amazement—“wife, is it? You—you with a wife, John?” “In time, I hope.” “Losh, Johnnie man! And here was I thinking——” “Evil of me, Hector. My reputation dogs me even yet!” “Forgi’e me, lad, forgi’e me! And ... O John, you would actually marry a—a serving-wench—you?” “I!” “And by heaven, I honour ye for’t! Doth she love ye?” “Well, Hector, there are times when I am gravely doubtful ... yesterday, for instance, she called me ‘John’ for the first time!” “An’ blushed when she said it, lad?” “Like a rose, Hector!” “’Twas a good sign, sure?” “Aye—in any maid but Rose. Thus when Rose, blushing rosily as Rose should, calleth me ‘John,’ my assurance shakes and I grow doubtful.” “But can ye no’ find out, John?” “Aye—her aunt might tell me!” So saying, he turned and went his thoughtful way, leaving Sir Hector staring after him in deepest perplexity. Her Grace the Duchess of Connington was seated in her little garden busily shelling peas. “Ah, and is it you—at last, sir?” quoth she, acknowledging Sir John’s profound obeisance with a smiling nod. “Pray, why ha’ you been so long a-calling?” “I awaited vainly your niece’s invitation, madam, and am here to-day unbidden.”