“I can tell you that!” was Mrs. Billing’s unexpected reply. “Mr. Shafto was a Fellow of his College at Oxford, wealthy and distinguished—he had taken no end of honours. He was hooked—there is no other word for it—by the niece of a local book-seller! He was an important customer, and the girl always contrived to be there, when he came in and out, and was so sympathetic, and bright and lively, as well as being uncommonly pretty, that the poor man lost his head and, with very little pressure from the uncle, married her. It was all scrambled up in a hurry, before his friends could turn round, or interfere. Of course he had to resign his fellowship and his beautiful rooms overlooking the garden, and he took his bride abroad. His relations dropped him and he dropped his Oxford friends; then he went and settled in the north. He must have lived there for years; his next move was here.” “And have you always known this?” demanded Miss Mitty, her countenance expressing injury and jealousy. Fancy Mrs. Billing knowing this story all that time and keeping it to herself; how sly! “Oh, only lately,” replied the visitor in an apologetic key; “an old aunt of mine lives in Oxford, and I met her in town last Easter. Somehow the name of Shafto cropped up, and I heard the whole tale. I told my husband and he said I’d better hold my tongue, and so I have, until now, when it’s of no consequence who knows—as of course ‘Littlecote’ must be given up, and the Shaftos will go away.” “Well, we have often wondered who she was? and how Shafto—who looked like a duke—came to marry her,” said Miss Tebbs; “such an odd, flighty, uncertain sort of creature, always for strangers, instead of her home. That poor boy never saw much of his mother; I believe he was hustled off to a preparatory school when he was about seven, and when he happened to be here for his holidays it was his father who took him about. I am very sorry for Douglas, a handsome, cheery, nice fellow,” she continued, “always with a pleasant word, even for an old woman like me. The rectory lads and the Tremenheeres just love him!” “Luckily there are no girls at the rectory,” remarked Miss Mitty. “Douglas is but nineteen, and really only a boy,” protested Mrs. Billing. “Well, this affair will make a man of him, or I’m greatly mistaken.” “More likely it will make him a slave,” argued Jane; “he is bound to support his mother, and a hundred and fifty pounds a year won’t go far with her! And now I dare say she will have her wish and be able to live in London. I suppose there will be an auction at ‘Littlecote’?” “Yes, of course,” assented Mrs. Billing, “and that is sure to bring in a handsome sum—unless there are liabilities and debts. I’ve always admired that Crown Derby tea service—dark blue and gold.” “I know,” rejoined Miss Tebbs, “a beautiful long set, and there’s a nice little old Sheffield tea urn that we could do with! I expect the kitchen things will go pretty cheap; we want a new preserving pan.”