“Greg, I’ll have you flogged, and you never shall come from school again. What’s that you’re saying, Mary?” “There’s a jintleman in the drawing-room as is axing afther masther.” “Gentleman—what gentleman?” asked the lady. “Sorrow a know I know, ma’am!” said Mary, who was a new importation—“only, he’s a dark, sightly jintleman, as come on a horse.” “And did you send for the master?” “I did, ma’am; I was out in the yard, and bad Patsy go look for him.” “It’s Nicholas Dillon, I’ll bet twopence,” said Greg, jumping up to rush into the other room: “he’s come about the black colt, I know.” “Stay where you are, Greg; and don’t go in there with your dirty face and fingers;” and, after speculating a little longer, the lady went into the drawing-room herself; though, to tell the truth, her own face and fingers were hardly in a state suitable for receiving company. Mrs Armstrong marched into the drawing-room with something of a stately air, to meet the strange gentleman, and there she found her old friend Lord Ballindine. Whoever called at the rectory, and at whatever hour the visit might be made, poor Mrs Armstrong was sure to apologise for the confusion in which she was found. She had always just got rid of a servant, and could not get another that suited her; or there was some other commonplace reason for her being discovered _en déshabille_ [40]. However, she managed to talk to Frank for a minute or two with tolerable volubility, till her eyes happening to dwell on her own hands, which were certainly not as white as a lady’s should be, she became a little uncomfortable and embarrassed—tried to hide them in her drapery—then remembered that she had on her morning slippers, which were rather the worse for wear; and, feeling too much ashamed of her _tout ensemble_ to remain, hurried out of the room, saying that she would go and see where Armstrong could possibly have got himself to. She did not appear again to Lord Ballindine. Poor Mrs Armstrong!—though she looked so little like one, she had been brought up as a lady, carefully and delicately; and her lot was the more miserable, for she knew how lamentable were her present deficiencies. When she married a poor curate, having, herself, only a few hundred pounds’ fortune, she had made up her mind to a life of comparative poverty; but she had meant even in her poverty to be decent, respectable, and lady-like. Weak health, nine children, an improvident husband, and an income so lamentably ill-suited to her wants, had however been too much for her, and she had degenerated into a slatternly, idle scold.