Roxmouth gave an exclamation of mingled contempt and impatience, and dropped the conversation.  But he was intensely weary of Sir Morton’s ’fine jovial personality’—­he hated his red face, his white hair, his stout body, his servile obsequiousness to rank, and all his ‘darling old man’ ways.  Darling old man he might be, but he was unquestionably a dull old man as well.  So much so, indeed, that when at luncheon on the day now named, his lordship Roxmouth, as Mr. Netlips would have styled him, was in a somewhat petulant mood, being tired of the constant scolding of the servants that went on around him, and being likewise moved to a sort of loathing repulsion at the contemplation of Miss Tabitha’s waxy-clean face lined with wrinkles, and bordered by sternly smooth grey hair.  He was lazily wondering to himself whether she had ever been young—­whether the same waxy face, wrinkles and grey hair had not adorned her in her very cradle,—­when the appearance of an evidently highly nervous boy in buttons, carrying a letter towards his host on a silver salver, distracted his attention.

“What’s this—­what’s this?” spluttered Sir Morton, hastily dropping a fork full of peas which he had been in the act of conveying to his mouth—­“What are you bringing notes in here for, eh?  Haven’t I told you I won’t have my meals disturbed by messages and parcels?  What d’ye mean by it?  Take it away—­take it away!—­No!—­here!—­stop a minute, stop a minute!  Yes—­yes!—­I see!—­marked ‘immediate,’ and from Abbot’s Manor.  My dear lord!”—­And here he raised his voice to a rich warble-"I believe this will concern you more than me—­ha-ha-ha!—­yes, yes! we know a thing or two!  ’When a woman will, she will, you may depend on’t!’—­never mind the other line!—­never mind, never mind!” And he broke open the seal of the missive presented to him, and adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles to read its contents.  “Eh—­ what’s this—­what’s this?  God bless my soul!” And his round eyes protruded in astonishment and dismay—­“Look here!—­I say—­really!  You’d better read this, my lord!  God bless my soul!  She’s bolted!”

Roxmouth started violently.  Mr. Marius Longford looked up sharply—­ and Miss Tabitha laid down her knife and fork with the regular old maid’s triumphant air of ‘I told you so!’

“God bless my soul!” said Sir Morton again—­“Was ever such a bit of damned cheek!—­beg pardon, my lord!—–­”

“Don’t apologise!” said Roxmouth, with courteous languor, “At least, not to me!  To Miss Tabitha!” and he waved his hand expressively.  “May I see the letter?”

“Certainly—­certainly!” and Sir Morton in a great fluster passed it along.  It was a very brief note and ran as follows: