“No, George, not that. Not half so bad for _me_ as for _you_; but somehow I felt it would be a relief to have a guest, who would oblige us to drop our grumblings and exert ourselves to talk of something besides our own personal worries. Now, who is it?” “What would you say to Mr. Cutbill?” “Do you mean the engineering man we saw at Castello?” “The same.” “Oh, dear! I retract. I recall my last speech, and avow, in all humility, I was wrong. All I remember of that man--not much certainly--but all I do remember of him was that he was odious.” “He was amusing, in his way.” “Probably--but I detested 'his way.'” “The Bramleighs said he was good-natured.” “With all my heart. Give him all the excellent qualities you like; but he will still remain insufferably ill-bred and coarse-minded. Why did you ask him, George?” “I did n't; he asked himself. Here's his note: 'Dear L'Estrange'--familiar enough--'Dear L'Estrange--I have just arrived here, and want to have some talk with you. I mean, therefore, to ask you to let me take a bit of dinner with you to-day. I shall be out by five or half-past. Don't make a stranger of me, but give me the cold mutton or whatever it is.--Yours, Tom Cutbill.'” “What a type of the writer!” “Well; but what can we get for dinner, Ju?” “The cold mutton, I think. I 'm sure the gentleman's estimate of his value as a guest cannot be too low.” “No, Julia, let us treat him to our best. He means kindly by coming out here to see us.” “I 'd have taken the will for the deed with more of gratitude. Oh, George,” cried she with fervor, “why will you be always so much obliged to the man who condescends to eat your salt? This Mr. Cutbill will be your patron for the next twenty-four hours.” “Certainly the man who dines with us cannot come for the excellence of our fare.” “That is a very ingenious bit of self-flattery; but don't trust it, George. Men eat bad dinners continually; and there is a sort of condescension in eating them at a friend's house, which is often mistaken for good-nature; and the fun of it is that the men who do these things are very vain of the act.” L'Estrange gave a little shrug of his shoulders. It was his usual reply to those subtleties which his sister was so fond of, and that he was never very sure whether they were meant to puzzle or to persuade him. “So then he is to be an honored guest, George, eh?” He smiled a gentle assent, and she went on: “And we are to treat him to that wonderful Rhine wine Sir Marcus sent you to cure your ague. And the very thought of drinking anything so costly actually brought on a shivering attack.” “Have we any of it left?”