“I dare say,” grunted George, who felt that Cheriton, as usual, was becoming tedious. He showed a marked inclination to resume the study of the prices made at Tattersall’s the week before last. Cheriton’s next remark, however, did something to recapture his interest.
“You remember that gal of hers, that niece?” said Cheriton, speaking in a rather aggrieved tone.
“Ye-es,” said George, heavily, but with attention. “Gal with the ginger hair.”
“Well, now, George,” said his old friend, impressively, “I am going to tell you something.”
Cheriton looked round the room to make quite sure that none of his fellow-members were within hearing.
“When that gal came to London a few weeks ago,” said he, “she arrived at Hill Street in a turn-out that any self-respecting butter-woman would disdain to go to market in. She was the most untutored child of nature that I ever saw in the house of a Christian.”
George nodded to show that he was following the course of his friend’s narrative.
“Well, Caroline was furious. You know, I dare say, the circumstances in which the gal came to Hill Street. Mind you, I don’t disguise the fact that her coming there at all was highly creditable to Caroline. In the course of a forty years’ acquaintance, it is the only spontaneous act of charity in which I have known her indulge. But when she saw the untutored creature that had been sent to her from the heart of Exmoor, she wanted to send her packing. However, with infinite difficulty, I managed to dissuade her. Her people are as poor as mice, as, of course, you know. Father a parson, who has to bring up a long family on forty pound a year.”
“Ye-es,” said George, nodding.
“Knowing the gal’s circumstances,” his friend continued, “I thought it would be only right to give her a chance. But Caroline was all for sending her home again. And then I made the discovery that the rustic parson’s daughter was by way of being a throwback to her grandmother Dorset. Well, George, what do you think I did?”