"Lor! yes, ma'am. I have seen him grow purple round the eyes, and crimson in the cheeks, and throve a whole sack of flour through the window." Eleanor receives the information with an expressive "Oh!" as she shakes down her hair, and tells Sarah to brush it. "How many servants have I got?" gazing at her face in the mirror contentedly. "Three, ma'am. There's me, and Judith, and cook." "Do you like Richmond?" "Well enough, ma'am, thank you, but Judith would have rather been in London, and cook has always set her face against the suburbs." "Then why did they come?" "Well, you see, ma'am, the gentleman engaged them, and he seemed that put about they hadn't the heart to refuse." "Good gracious! whatever is that noise?" "The dinner gong. Judith is very strong in the arms, and she do make it sound, ma'am!" "Light a few more candles; I want to have a good look at myself." Eleanor walks up and down before the glass, with spasmodic gasps of satisfaction, till Philip comes to the door to see if she is ready. Eleanor is brimming over with conversation during the evening meal; she has something to say about everything, and her ideas seem to expand over each fresh course. At the soup she wants a pony cart, but over the fish decides on a brougham and victoria. The _entree_ introduces a pair of prancing chestnuts, and Philip is quite afraid that the arrival of the meat will suggest powdered footmen in silk stockings. "You see, dear," he explains at dessert, when Sarah and Judith have left the room, "I have a very comfortable income to live in a fairly luxurious style without undue extravagance. We can easily keep one horse and man, which I have waited to choose with you." "I see," replies Eleanor, peeling a banana. There is a pause, then she looks up and repeats uncertainly: "I see, Philip." "You will try and make a good little housekeeper and manage everything splendidly. I often think of you, Eleanor, in your peaceful domesticity at Copthorne. How quiet it was, and----" "How _dull_!" (sighing). It all comes back with a rush--the pewter dinner service, and spotless parlour, smelling of lavender and soap, the cackle of hens and lowing of cows. Eleanor pushes aside the dish of bananas, "Let us go out in the moonlight," she says. "It is lovely in the garden, and you can smoke. Let me light your cigar?" striking a match on the sole of her velvet slipper, and narrowly escaping burning her pink silk train. "You must not do that, dear, it is dangerous," remonstrates Philip. "Oh, no! not if you put up your foot so," illustrating her meaning by striking another. "What is that pretty yellow stuff you are drinking?" "Chartreuse." Eleanor kneels down by his side and sips out of his glass. "What queer tasting stuff, not half as nice as elderberry wine!" "Don't you like it?" "No; it's almost as nasty as the cowslip tea I used to make. But do come for a stroll; I like wandering about in this long silk gown, it feels so grand."