“It does no good to keep people waiting for an answer,” sighed Miss Ormerod, “though I don’t feel as able as I did since that unlucky accident at Waterloo. And no one realises what the strain of the work is—often I’m the only lady in the room, and the gentlemen so learned, though I’ve always found them most helpful, most generous in every way. But I’m growing old. Miss Hartwell, that’s what it is. That’s what led me to be thinking of this difficult matter of flour infestation in the middle of the road so that I didn’t see the horse until he had poked his nose into my ear. . . . Then there’s this nonsense about a pension. What could possess Mr. Barron to think of such a thing? I should feel inexpressibly lowered if I accepted a pension. Why, I don’t altogether like writing LL.D. after my name, though Georgie would have liked it. All I ask is to be let go on in my own quiet way. Now where is Messrs. Langridge’s sample? We must take that first. ‘Gentlemen, I have examined your sample and find . . .’” “If any one deserves a thorough good rest it’s you. Miss Ormerod,” said Dr. Lipscomb, who had grown a little white over the ears. “I should say the farmers of England ought to set up a statue to you, bring offerings of corn and wine—make you a kind of Goddess, eh—what was her name?” “Not a very shapely figure for a Goddess,” said Miss Ormerod with a little laugh. “I should enjoy the wine though. You’re not going to cut me off my one glass of port surely?” “You must remember,” said Dr. Lipscomb, shaking his head, “how much your life means to others.” “Well, I don’t know about that,” said Miss Ormerod, pondering a little. “To be sure, I’ve chosen my epitaph. ‘She introduced Paris Green into England,’ and there might be a word or two about the Hessian fly—that, I do believe, was a good piece of work.” “No need to think about epitaphs yet,” said Dr. Lipscomb. “Our lives are in the hands of the Lord,” said Miss Ormerod simply. Dr. Lipscomb bent his head and looked out of the window. Miss Ormerod remained silent. “English entomologists care little or nothing for objects of practical importance,” she exclaimed suddenly. “Take this question of flour infestation—I can’t say how many grey hairs that hasn’t grown me.” “Figuratively speaking. Miss Ormerod,” said Dr. Lipscomb, for her hair was still raven black. “Well, I do believe all good work is done in concert,” Miss Ormerod continued. “It is often a great comfort to me to think that.” “It’s beginning to rain,” said Dr. Lipscomb. “How will your enemies like that, Miss Ormerod?” “Hot or cold, wet or dry, insects always flourish!” cried Miss Ormerod, energetically sitting up in bed. “Old Miss Ormerod is dead,” said Mr. Drummond, opening The Times on Saturday, July 20th, 1901. “Old Miss Ormerod?” asked Mrs. Drummond. [Footnote 8: Founded upon the Life of Eleanor Ormerod, by Robert Wallace Murray. 1904.] _Jane Austen_