return, the phaeton strangers were in
possession of my room, fresh as snakes in a
new skin, thanks to their provident wrappers
and macintoshes: the lady settling her
bandeaus at the zigzaggy green glass over
the chimney-piece; the man, a tall, stout,
broad-backed, shooting-jacketed squire, or
farmer, bending inquisitively over my writing-
case, apparently studying the name engraved
round the lock; for he was saying:

"It's the same name, by Jove! But it
can't be old Charley; it's too ridiculous."

He drew himself up as I entered, with
some formal apology on his lips, stared,
paused, and then we cried out together:

"Charley Kent!"

"Dick Dallington!"

"I should never have known you."

It was not likely we should. We might
have passed each other a hundred times, and
never have recognised old chums and school-
fellows in the two men whom fifteen years had
separated.

The slender-waisted, fair-complexioned,
ringletted, moustached, carefully got up Dick
Dallington of other days, had filled out to a
well-proportioned squire of good fourteen
stone without a useless pound of fat; a
forehead slightly bald about the temples, and
hair still curly but closely cropped had
succeeded what Mademoiselle Entrechat, whose
classical notions were rather confused, used
to call "Mon Richard's tete d'Apollyon."
The moustache had disappeared, and the
whiskers were reduced to the true English
mutton-chop shape. The laughing grey eyes,
still unclouded by crowsfeet, and the smiling
mouth of brilliant teeth, were witnesses in
favour of the identity of the ancient Dick.

As for myself, a round rosy face and a
plump ball of an active upright figure, had
turned pale, thin, round-shouldered. Iron-
grey hair and many minute wrinkles lining
the forehead, bore witness to the identity
of the Managing Director of the Dragon Life
and Fire Assurance Company—a respectable
man who kept his Brougham and seldom
took a holiday.

My last reports of Dick had been
anything but satisfactory; but now, without
asking any questions, I had only to take one
glance at him and another at Mrs. Dallington,
to learn that he was thriving; although I
could scarcely believe it possible that Dick
could have been converted into the great
Lord Bullfinch's agent—as the landlord had
told me he had been—by any modern process
of transmutation less than the discovery of
the elixir vitæ or the philosopher's stone.

A stealthy survey of Mrs. Dick during the
process of introduction half explained the
secret. She was one of those little compact
bodies, with clearly defined features, grave
piercing eyes, broad foreheads and firm chins
(relieved in this instance by a good-tempered
mouth) who seem born to manage husbands.

Her first movement was a key to her
character. After a burst of explanations and
enquiries, while Dick was deep in ordering a
dinner of something better than pig's fry
(with the help of a hamper out of the boot of
the phaeton), she drew out a memorandum
book, ladylike in binding but business-like in
size, and turning slowly over the leaves,—

"Is there anything you could do before
dinner, Mr. Dallington (Mr. in compliment to
me), we have nearly an hour here to wait?"
She looked at her watch: none of your French
affairs, but a solid timekeeper—a regular
pocket chronometer.

"Ah! there are those allowances to be
settled with Tomkins for the draining he is
to do instead of a money reduction of his
rent. You must make him understand that
he can't have the work unless he employs
old Joseph Hunsden as his foreman, for he's
the only man we can depend on to take the
levels properly. And there's the agreement
with Gorseman for the Clayhill farm he
wants for his son Robert. Mind you tell
Gorseman that the rent will be raised ten
per cent, if Mr. Robert does not keep the
farm up to its present condition. We have
had it in hand two years, and it has cost his
lordship a small fortune to get it in heart after
the neglect of that lazy, obstinate fellow,
Gubbins. I think they will both be here, as they
go home by the train now since the branch
line opened. Shall I ring the bell, my dear:
see if they are in the market room? " So
saying, without waiting for Dick's answer,
she rang very decidedly.

Something indefinable in Dallington's
expression seemed to say, that he would much
sooner have deferred all business in favour
of a chat with his old friend; for, turning to
me with a very pleasant smile, Mrs. Dallington
continued:

"You will excuse Richard, I am sure, Mr.
Kent, for you are a man of business, and can
understand how necessary it is on a large
estate like ours, where the tenants are so
much dispersed, to settle every question that
arises, at the moment, if possible. But now
that we have had the pleasure of meeting
you so unexpectedly, you must name an early
day for paying us a visit at Blacthorne
Grange. Bring Mrs. Kent and the children—
we have plenty of spare beds; and it is such
a solitary place, it will be quite a charity to
help us to fill the house. It was the Dowager
house formerly; but my lord has added a
complete set of farm buildings to it for his
model farm. By the by, I don't know whether
you take notice of such things, some husbands
do—can you tell me how they are wearing
the bonnets in London? We never get up
to town now since my poor father died."

Fortunately for my credit, Tomkins first,
and then Gorseman, arrived, and turned the
natural current of the lady's thoughts.

Dallington did all the negociation himself,
and went through each affair in a manner
quite amazing to me, who at first forgot what