And she drew on again with some difficulty, over hands which were not quite so presentable, the black gloves, which had not borne the strain of the morning, the heat, and the affliction, so well as might have been desired. Before doing this, however, she had written, by a sudden inspiration, a note to Sally Fletcher, requesting her to come to Greyshott at once with Mrs. Gervase Piercey’s “things,” and to remain as her maid till further orders. And then she took her husband’s arm, and went solemnly downstairs. Colonel Piercey was lingering in the hall, much at a loss what to do. Margaret had not yet appeared. The butler stood at the door of the dining-room, with Robert, not John Simpson, at his side. Patty knew that it was correct and proper for the party to assemble first in the drawing-room, but she waived that ceremony for to-night. She came downstairs very audibly, describing to Gervase what she intended to do. “I can’t bear the gloomy library,” she said. “I don’t mean to sit in it. We must have the real drawing-room made fit to live in. But all that will want a little time, and, of course, your dear papa must be consulted. I would not for the world interfere with his little ways.” “Where’s father? ain’t he coming to dinner?” said Gervase, breaking into this speech, which the audience for which it was intended had already heard, noted, and inwardly digested. “No, Mr. Gervase. Mr. Dunning things as Sir Giles ’as ’ad enough excitement for to-day.” “Well,” said Patty, “I don’t think much of Dunning after his neglect, but he’s right in that. I should have said so myself had it been referred to me. Early to bed and kept quite quiet--that is the only thing for your poor dear papa. Are we waiting for any one?” she said, looking round with majesty. _J’ai failli attendre_. Patty had never heard these words, but they were written on her face. There was silence in the hall. Colonel Piercey had turned round from the engraving which he had been examining with quite unnecessary minuteness; but as he did not know either of the strange couple who by a sudden transformation had become his hosts, it was not possible that he could give any explanations; and the butler, who had not the training of a master of the ceremonies, and who had begun to shake in his shoes before that personage who, in her day, had drawn beer for him at the Seven Thorns--who had dismissed the great Parsons, and accused the greater Dunning of neglect--remained dumb, shifting from one foot to another, looking helplessly in front of him. He ventured at last to say, with trepidation, that “Mrs. Osborne, if you please, is just coming downstairs.”