I don’t think that Lord Ragnall quite liked it, but fortunately Lady Longden was a talkative person. First she conversed about her cold in the head, sneezing at intervals, poor soul, and being reduced to send for another handkerchief after the entrées. Then she got off upon business matters; to judge from the look of boredom on her host’s face, I think it must have been of settlements. Three times did I hear him refer her to the lawyers—without avail. Lastly, when he thought he had escaped, she embarked upon a quite vigorous argument with Dr. Jeffreys about church matters—I gathered that she was “low” and he was “high”—in which she insisted upon his lordship acting as referee. “Do try and keep your attention fixed, George,” I heard her say severely. “To allow it to wander when high spiritual affairs are under discussion (sneeze) is scarcely reverent. Could you tell the man to shut that door? The draught is dreadful. It is quite impossible for you to agree with both of us, as you say you do, seeing that metaphorically Dr. Jeffreys is at one pole and I am at the other.” (Sneeze.) “Then I wish I were at the Tropic of Cancer,” I heard him mutter with a groan. In vain; he had to keep his “attention fixed” on this point for the next three-quarters of an hour. So as Miss Manners was at the other side of me, and Scroope, unhampered by the presence of any prospective mother-in-law, was at the other side of her, for all practical purposes Miss Holmes and I were left alone. She began by saying: “I hear you beat Sir Junius Fortescue out shooting to-day, and won a lot of money from him which you gave to the Cottage Hospital. I don’t like shooting, and I don’t like betting; and it’s strange, because you don’t look like a man who bets. But I detest Sir Junius Fortescue, and that is a bond of union between us.” “I never said I detested him.” “No, but I am sure you do. Your face changed when I mentioned his name.” “As it happens, you are right. But, Miss Holmes, I should like you to understand that you were also right when you said I did not look like a betting man.” And I told her some of the story of Van Koop and the £250. “Ah!” she said, when I had finished, “I always felt sure he was a horror. And my mother wanted me, just because he pretended to be low church—but that’s a secret.”