"Mind? Oh, well, of course I should prefer a thousand a year and a villa on the Thames; but a fellow who has been an idler up to four and twenty must take any chance of earning something, and be thankful for it." "_That's_ right." Mrs. Dobbs drew a long breath of relief. "It would only be for a year or two; I should come back," added Owen wistfully. Then he shook hands and went away, and Mrs. Dobbs and her grand-daughter were left to discuss the news he had told them. May chatted away cheerfully, even gaily. When Mr. Weatherhead arrived the subject was talked over again. Jo's pleasure in the prospect opening before Mr. Rivers was somewhat tempered by his sense of the incongruity involved in "a gentleman like that, brimful of learning, and belonging to the old landed gentry," being under the orders of Joshua Bragg! "There's no contradiction at all, Jo, if you look at it fairly," said Mrs. Dobbs. "Mr. Bragg will command where he has a right to--that is, in matters that he knows better than Mr. Rivers, for all his book-learning. It isn't as if Joshua wanted to teach the young man how to be a gentleman. I don't say it's not a good thing to be a gentleman, but it ain't exactly a paying business nowadays, if ever it was, which I doubt." "Ah, more's the pity!" said Jo, shaking his head. "Why, if I was a gentleman--or a lady--I shouldn't agree with you there, Jo. If gentlehood don't mean something above and beyond what can be paid for, 'tis a poor business. It seems to me just as pitiful for gentry to expect money's worth for their old family, high breeding, and fine manners, as it is for the grand workers of the world to grumble because they can't have power over the past, as well as the present and the future. Mr. Bragg ain't one of that sort. You'll never catch _him_ inventing a family crest, or painting wild beasts on his carriage." Jo took his pipe out of his mouth, and looked with solemn approbation at his old friend. "Sarah," said he, "you're right; and I believe you're a better Conservative than me, when all's said and done." May had been silent during this discussion. She held some needlework in her hands; but they were lying idly on her lap, and she was gazing out of the window as intently as though the small suburban garden offered a prospect of inexhaustible interest. The cessation of the voices roused her. She looked round, and said softly-- "It's a good climate, isn't it, granny? Where Mr. Bragg's son lives, I mean." CHAPTER XI. Before going to bed that night Mrs. Dobbs sat down and wrote a letter, marked "private and confidential," to Mr. Bragg. "DEAR MR. BRAGG" (she wrote),