"There's nothing like being certain of your destination," said Prelice dryly, and was about to move on, when the housekeeper stopped him.
"Your pardin, my lord, but I've been trying to catch your eyes ever since you came here, but never managed it till now. In a kitchen garden too," ended Mrs. Blexey mournfully, "which don't seem to be the place for a lord of high degree to speak in."
"It suited him to swear in it, however," murmured Prelice frivolously; then added in louder tones: "What do you wish to speak to me about?"
"Not about him that is gone," remarked Mrs. Blexey, referring to her lost spouse, "though his language—begging your lordship's pardin—was as like yours as bean-pods. And because of such talk, he'll never come back—never. Them as has him, will keep him."
"Indeed. Are they—whomsoever they may be—fond of him?"
"I don't think so, my lord. You see, he's—well, he's dead, my lord."
Prelice put up his hand to twirl his moustache and hide a smile. "Then you think that——"
"I'm sorry for Blexey," interrupted the housekeeper firmly; "but he didn't belong to the United Inhabitants of the Celestial Regions, so he——" She pointed stealthily downward.
"Let us hope it is not so bad as that," said Prelice, choking with suppressed laughter. "You wish to speak to me," he repeated politely.
"To catch your lordship's eyes as it were."