Indeed, this sprightly lady suffered from a very common infirmity of poor humanity--an incapacity for graciously accepting such knocks as she dealt to others. One might unconsciously check her flow of spirits with the veriest straw of chaff, and only discover the enormity haphazard. Sometimes her sensitive nature would build up a grievance from a single word, so carelessly spoken and soon forgotten of the offender that, when he would come to view the complicated fabric of resentment that had sprung therefrom, he could only marvel at the astounding pregnancy of his speech. “My sister having pronounced,” said Sir David--with a point of his little rude tongue in the direction of that incensed lady--“I come to the upshot of the apostleates--or whatever they are called.” “And that is?” murmured Mr. Tuke, quite shyly. “Why, that it ain’t no good looking for the stone where it’s been looked for before.” Tuke stole a glance at Miss Royston, humbly and dumbly inviting her to endorse or quash this opinion. She was rigidly silent. “Well?” he asked, not in the least knowing what he was inquiring about. “Why, I’ve said it,” exclaimed the other. “We needn’t grub under the floors, when, by your own account, the boards have been had up already.” “By Whimple’s account,” said Tuke. “But, you’re right. The rogues would have searched thoroughly where they did search.” “Then, where to look?” “I propose we each take two or three rooms to a share; investigate as we will, and meet and compare notes at dinner-time.” “Capital. What d’ye say, Angel?” “Oh! you can leave me out of the question.” “What! you ain’t goin’ to take part in the fun?” “I have contributed my mite to it, by serving as butt to the witticisms of two ingenious gentlemen.” “Miss Royston!” exclaimed Tuke aghast. “Oh, sir!” responded the lady frigidly, “’twould argue a certain community of interests that hardly exists, did I permit myself the familiarity of an informal intrusion upon your privacy. But I can be quite happy here, if you will vouchsafe me the society of Mr. Whimple, who will take no advantage, I am sure, of my condescension, and who will not judge frankness to be an invitation to impertinence.” She capped this with quite an enigmatical little smile. “Or, if you desire his services for yourself,” she said, “I can order out my horse and return to ‘Chatters.’” Sir David was softly chuckling, preliminary to a sad explosion of laughter. Tuke saw it, and hastily put in a word. “I beg you will not disappoint me of your promised company to dinner. You are very welcome to what you ask; and your brother and I will hunt in company.” He bowed, drew the little man from the room and to the far end of the passage without. There the latter suddenly detained him, his swollen face falling to an expression of great gravity. “Lookee here,” he said, “I am in the dark--I am in the dark, Tuke. Will you take it friendly if I ask you to enlighten me. Are ye vexed wi’ the wench’s whimsies?”