He could not make Mona--as he called her mentally--out in any way whatsoever. She was certainly engaged to Ned, and yet she spoke of him quite unemotionally, as she would have done of--well, not of an acquaintance perhaps, but of a friend. She could not possibly love him, and if she did not, should certainly not be engaged to him. Ned had no money and no position, so she assuredly could not be seeking to better herself by the marriage. Certainly gratitude might induce her to become his wife, since he had stood by her; but then--and here Prelice swore again--she had been engaged to him some time before the death of Sir Oliver, and when no gratitude could possibly have entered into her acceptance. And if she was merely grateful, Ned would not marry her on that account, especially since, on the authority of Mrs. Rover, he loved another woman. For the third time Prelice swore over the problem, and determined to throw all delicacy to the winds, so far as Shepworth was concerned. The moment Ned arrived at the Grange he would ask him plainly what he meant, and what she meant, and what the whole infernal complication meant. It was quite impossible that a young aristocrat with a large income, and a healthy frame, and a loving heart, should sit on thorns any longer. "Blankety--blankety--blank," raged Prelice, and looked up on hearing an exclamation of horror at his elbow. His aimless walk had led him to the kitchen garden, and to a bed of pot-herbs, which Mrs. Blexey was laboriously picking. Being stout, and like Hamlet scant of breath, the housekeeper wheezed like a creaky wheel as she stooped to gather some sage and thyme. But she retained enough breath to cry out with horror, when hearing this handsome young gentleman swearing--as she afterwards described it--like the late Mr. Blexey, who had been a skipper of renown in the way of bad language. "I beg your pardon," said Prelice, showing his white teeth in a smile which won Mrs. Blexey's heart. "I'm a little put out. Didn't know any lady was within earshot." "Bless you, my lord, I'm not a lady, and never laid claim to be one, so swearing, though not proper, don't worrit me over-much. It calls back old times, sir." "Really. Did you swear yourself?" "Me!" Mrs. Blexey looked indignant. "Why, I belong to the United Inhabitants of the Celestial Regions." "What?" "It's my religion," said Mrs. Blexey simply; "what you might call my sect, my lord. There's very few of us, but we all go to heaven." "There's nothing like being certain of your destination," said Prelice dryly, and was about to move on, when the housekeeper stopped him. "Your pardin, my lord, but I've been trying to catch your eyes ever since you came here, but never managed it till now. In a kitchen garden too," ended Mrs. Blexey mournfully, "which don't seem to be the place for a lord of high degree to speak in."