“Thank you, my lady.”
The steward drew a chair to the table, and placed a particularly neat bag before him, which he proceeded to open, and brought out a packet of papers neatly docketed and tied up with green silk ferret in quite legal fashion.
“What are those, Mr Trimmer?” said the lady, assuming a gold-framed pince-nez.
“The reports upon the Parliamentary canvass, my lady. Ditto those in connection with the village charities and your donations in town. If your ladyship will glance over them I think you will find them perfectly correct.”
“Of course, Mr Trimmer. I will read the latter over at my leisure.”
At that moment the merry notes of a well-blown post-horn were heard, and Lady Lisle started, while Syd ran to the window.
“What is that?”
“I fancy it comes from a coach, my lady, passing the lodge gates.”
“Yes, auntie. Drag going over to Tilborough,” cried the boy, screwing his head on one side so as to follow the handsome four-in-hand with its well-driven team.
“Tut—tut!” ejaculated Lady Lisle. “These degrading meetings! Come away, Sydney, my dear.”