He lighted the cigar and puffed luxuriously.
"Still alive!" echoed Mrs. Crammer, "and as pretty as a picture. Dark 'air, dark eyes--not a bit like 'er father."
"No," said Cicero, grasping the idea. "Dick was fair when we were boys. I heard rumors that little Sophy was engaged--let me see--to a Mr. Thorold."
"Alan Thorold, Esquire," corrected the coachman gruffly; "one of the oldest families hereabouts, as lives at the Abbey farm. He's gone with her to the seaside."
"To the seaside? Not to Brighton?"
"Nothin' of the sort--to Bournemouth, if you know where that is."
"I know some things, my friend," said Cicero mildly. "It was Bournemouth I meant--not unlike Brighton, I think, since both names begin with a B. I know that Miss Marlow--dear little Sophy!--is staying at the Imperial Hotel, Bournemouth."
"You're just wrong!" cried Thomas, falling into the trap; "she is at the Soudan Hotel. I've got the address to send on letters."
"Can I take them?" asked Gramp, rising. "I am going to Bournemouth to see little Sophy and Mr. Thorold. I shall tell them of your hospitality."
Before the footman could reply to this generous offer, the page-boy of the establishment darted in much excited.