"And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you, my dear madam?" Mr. Vavasour inquired blandly.
The visitor, who had examined Mr. Vavasour with a sharp glance as she made a formal bow to him, gave a little prefatory cough, and gazed at Mr. Vavasour's cheery fire.
"Of course," she said, "I am addressing Mr. Watkin Vavasower, the matrimonial agent? The Mr. Vavasower as advertises in the newspapers?"
"Just so, madam, just so," replied Mr. Vavasour in soothing tones. "I am that individual. And whom have I the pleasure of receiving?"
"Well, Mr. Vavasower, my name is Mrs. Rebecca Pringle," said the visitor. "Of course, you'll not know the name, but you're familiar with the name of the place I come from—the Old Farm, Windleby?"
Mr. Vavasour swept a jewelled hand over his high forehead.
"The Old Farm, Windleby?" he said. "The name seems familiar. Ah, yes, of course—the address of a respected client, Mr.—yes, Mr. Stephen Jarvis. Dear me—yes, of course. A very worthy gentleman!"
"Well, Mr. Vavasower," said Mrs. Pringle, smoothing her gown, which the agent's sharp eyes noticed to be of good substantial silk, "there's many a worthy gentleman as can make a fool of himself! I've nothing to say against Stephen, especially as I've kept house for him for fifteen years, which is to say ever since Pringle died. But I'm not blind to his faults, Mr. Vavasower, and of course I can't see him rush to his destruction, as it were, without putting out a finger to stop his headlong flight."
Mr. Vavasour made a lugubrious face, shook his head, and looked further inquiries.
"'It's come to my knowledge, Mr. Vavasower," continued Mrs. Pringle, "that Stephen Jarvis, as is my first cousin, has been having correspondence with you on the matter of finding a wife. A pretty thing for a man of his years to do—five-and-fifty he is, and no less—when he's kept off the ladies all this time! And I must tell you, Mr. Vavasower, that his family does not approve of it, and that's why I have come to see you."