"There's many a slip between the cup and the lip," said Mrs. Beatson, mysteriously; "but the less talked about is the soonest forgotten." After which cryptic speech she drifted toward the door, as if her legs were taking her in a direction contrary to that expressed by her will. "The Rev. Mr. Leigh is in the Muniment Room, Mr. Hendle," she said, pausing on the threshold, "and expressed a wish to see you." "You might ask him to stay to dinner," said Rupert, glancing at his watch. Mrs. Beatson departed firmly convinced that her master really intended to dismiss her and had only broken the ice with his information about the marriage, so that she might be prepared to be turned out to die. With this in her mind, she hovered uneasily about the dining-room and drawing-room both before and after dinner, in the hope of catching some stray word, which might reveal Rupert's expected treachery. Meanwhile Rupert, after a hearty laugh at Mrs. Beatson's cheerful manner of looking at the future, went upstairs to dress for dinner. "Hang Mrs. Beatson," he thought, when he descended to the drawing-room. "I do wish she would keep her dismals to herself. She's about as cheerful as tombs, and not at all the person to have in the house of a young married couple," and from this mental speech it may be guessed that the dreary old lady was within an ace of being dismissed, as she dreaded, although such an idea had never entered her master's mind until she began her wailing. Mr. Leigh, who had brushed and washed at Mrs. Beatson's request, for he was dusty and grimy after his work in the Muniment Room, was wandering about the big drawing-room, peering at pictures and statues and old silver through his pince-nez. He turned to greet Rupert in his usual mild absent-minded way, when the young Squire, smartly groomed and eminently handsome, entered. "Quite Greek," murmured the vicar, balancing himself on his toes and with his hands behind his back. "I must say that your looks are in your favor, Rupert. For the well-being of the race you should marry and beget children." "Well, I am going to," said Hendle, used to the vicar's eccentric speeches. "I make Dorinda my wife next month." "Oh, indeed," said Mr. Leigh alertly. "Dorinda is a very desirable damsel. I hope you will be happy." "You seem to have your doubts, from the tone you use," remarked Rupert dryly. Mr. Leigh shook his head. "Life has its troubles," he observed sententiously. "For heaven's sake, vicar, don't croak. I have had enough of that from Mrs. Beatson," a remark which the housekeeper, hovering outside the door, overheard and registered in her mind as a bad omen for her future continuance at The Big House. "I beg your pardon," went on the Squire, rather ashamed of his momentary irritability, "but I do wish people would look on marriage as marriage and not as a funeral." "Of course, of course," ruminated Mr. Leigh. "One is always sure of a funeral, though not of a marriage."