Ernest and Dorothy had been married about three weeks, and the latter was just beginning to get accustomed to hearing herself called Lady Kershaw, when one morning a dogcart drove up to the door, and out of it emerged Mr. de Talor. “Dear me, how Mr. de Talor has changed of late!” said Dorothy, who was looking out of the window. “How? Has he grown less like a butcher?” asked Ernest. “No,” she answered; “but he looks like a used-up butcher about to go through the Bankruptcy Court.” “Butchers never go bankrupt,” said Ernest; and at that moment Mr de Talor came in. Dorothy was right; the man was much changed. The fat cheeks were flabby and fallen, the insolent air was gone, and he was so shrunken that he looked not more than half his former size. “How do you do, Lady Kershaw? I saw Cardus ’ad got some one with him, so I drove round to pay my respects and congratulate the bride. Why, bless me. Sir Ernest, you ’ave grown since I saw you last! Ah, we used to be great friends then. You remember how you used to come and shoot up at the Ness” (he had once or twice given the two lads a day’s rabbit-shooting). “But, bless me, I hear that you have become quite a fire-eater since then, and been knocking over the niggers right and left—eh?” He paused for breath, and Ernest said a few words, not many, for he disliked the man’s flattery as much as in past years he used to dislike his insolence. “Ah,” went on De Talor, looking up and pointing to the case containing the witch’s head, “I see you’ve still got that beastly thing your brother once showed me; I thought it was a clock, and he pretty well frightened me out of my wits. Now I think of it, I’ve never ’ad any luck since I saw that thing.” At this moment the housekeeper Grice came to say that Mr. Cardus was ready to see Mr. de Talor if he would step into the office. Dorothy thought that their visitor turned paler at this news, and it evidently occupied his mind sufficiently to cause him to hurry from the room without bidding them good-bye. When Mr. de Talor entered the office he found the lawyer pacing up and down. “How do you do, Cardus?” he said jauntily. “How do you do, Mr. de Talor?” was the cold reply. De Talor walked to the glass door and looked at the glowing mass of blooming orchids. “Pretty flowers, Cardus, those, very. Orchids, ain’t they? Must have cost you a pot of money.” “They have not cost me much, Mr. de Talor; I have reared most of them.” “Then you are lucky; the bill my man gives me for his orchids is something awful.” “You did not come to speak to me about orchids, Mr. de Talor.” “No, Cardus, I didn’t; business first, pleasure afterwards—eh?” “Yes,” said Mr. Cardus, in his soft, jerky way. “Business first, pleasure afterwards.” Mr. de Talor fidgeted his legs about. “Well, Cardus, about that mortgage. You are going to give me a little more time, I hope?”