“I suppose you don’t supply the Grange, then?” said Colonel Dacre, looking as innocent as a dove.
“Bless you, sir, there’s no supplying as far as the Grange goes. The lady it belongs to doesn’t come to Turoy more than once a year, and then she is a teetotaller.”
“That is very unfortunate,” returned Colonel Dacre sympathetically. “I suppose she isn’t here now?”
“That I can’t tell you, sir. Her coming or going doesn’t make much difference to me, although some people are delighted enough.”
“Perhaps she is good to the poor?”
“Well, I believe she is that,” he admitted. “But I am afraid you don’t like the wine, sir. You see, having so little trade in that way, I can’t afford to keep much of a stock.”
“Oh, no; you are quite right,” answered the colonel. “Have you a decent bed for me, supposing I decide to remain at Turoy to-night?”
“The best in the world, sir; I’ll answer for that,” responded mine host. “And I shall be proud of your patronage and recommendation.”
Colonel Dacre strolled out into the village to pass away the time, and it was growing dusk when he presented himself once more at Lady Gwendolyn’s door. This time it was answered by a stalwart, weather-beaten man of about fifty, who, in reply to his question, said, civilly, that her ladyship was not at home.
“Could I see her if I called in the morning?” pursued the colonel.