"No, Ma'am," said the Doctor, with suppressed rage. "I am not seeking the lacteal fluid. As you see me, I, the Reverend Jacob Sternroyd, Doctor of Divinity and Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, am on my way to procure Ale!—" And with a face expressive of the utmost disgust he held out a very diminutive white milk-jug.
"Oh!" said Madame, with a tinge of astonishment. Then, in order to account for the presence of a stranger, she added, "This is Lord Otford."
With a cry of "Good Heavens!" the conscience-stricken Doctor let the jug fall. Happily it fell on the lawn and was not damaged.
With native courtesy Lord Otford picked it up and handed it to its owner. "Allow me: your jug, I think." Then, as a sudden idea occurred to him, "By the way, Doctor—" he cast a meaning glance at Madame—"can you tell me anything about a marriage-licence?"
Madame looked down, with another very becoming blush: but the Doctor's behaviour was quite extraordinary. He threw up his hands in guilty despair. "I said so! I knew it would come out!—" He appealed to Madame. "Miss Barbara told you!"
"Yes—but—" answered Madame, puzzled and astonished.
The Doctor continued rapidly, while the couple could only stare at him in mute amazement.
"I wash my hands of it! Two whole days, one of which was the blessed Sabbath, I have been up to my neck in cabals and intrigues! I have done!—" He fumbled in his pockets and ultimately produced a legal-looking document. "My Lord, it was very kind of you to approach the subject so considerately, but here is what you ask for. His Grace was very reluctant, but the pipe, which I now fear was not genuine, did it." Then, as if he had unburdened himself of some oppressive load of guilt, he cried, "Hah! My conscience is white again! I will tell the young fire-brand!" And with that he hurried back into the house, calling, "Jack! Jack!"
"But what is all this?" cried Lord Otford. He unfolded the paper and took it under the lamp. As soon as he had read the first lines, he gave a cry of amused surprise. "What do you say now, Lucy?"—Then he read aloud, "John Sayle, of Pomander Walk, in the Parish of Chiswick, bachelor, and Marjolaine Lachesnais, also of Pomander Walk, spinster—"
"Under our very noses!" exclaimed Madame, half vexed and half amused.