corn. You didn't have a
wet night?"

"Hot coppers this morning? My dear boy, no! Why, I lead as quiet a
life as a curate now."

"All the better for you."

Sir Hilton sighed again.

"Then it's true?" said the visitor, smiling.

"What's true? What have you been hearing? Did Lady Tilborough say--"

"Oh, nothing; only a bit of chaff about you."

"Tell me what the widow said."

"Oh, it was all good humouredly--a bit of her fun. You know what she
is--wouldn't hurt the feelings of a fly."

"Yes, yes, I know; but she has been laughing at me. She has--"

"Nonsense--nonsense! Don't make your coat rough, old man. She only
said it was a pity."

"What was a pity?"

"That dear old Hilt should be ridden with his curb chain so tight--by
George! I didn't know how hungry I was."

"Yes," said Sir Hilton, sadly; "the curb is a bit too tight sometimes,
Jack; but someone means well, and she has a right to be a bit firm. I
always was a fool over money matters."

"Nonsense, old fellow! You were a prince, only you were unlucky, and
were obliged to make a clear up; but you're all right again now."

"Yes," said the baronet, "I'm all right again now." But his voice
sounded very doleful.

"It was thirty thou' a-year, wasn't it--I mean, isn't it?"

Sir Hilton nodded.

"She got the title and you got the tin. Quid pro quo!"

Sir Hilton nodded again, and then made a desperate effort to turn the
conversation back upon his friend.

"Lady Lisle has always taken an interest in parish matters and the poor,
and it pleases her. She would not, of course, like me to take an
interest now in racing affairs."

"Of course not--of course not, my dear boy," said the visitor, helping
himself to the marmalade left by Sydney.

"But what about you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm doing capitally," was the reply, rather thickly uttered.

"Nonsense! I mean that affair. How do matters go with the widow?"

"Hah!" sighed the visitor, laying down his knife.

"Hallo! Not off, is it, old chap?"

"No, not off, Hilt, but I'm just where I was. Like the farmer over the
claret, I don't seem to get no furder."

"Well, you must be a duffer, Jack."

"I suppose I am, old man. Pluck enough in some things, but I'm afraid
of her."

"But haven't you spoken?"

"No; I daren't, for fear she should laugh at me, and the whole affair be
quite off."

"I say, Jack, you're dead hit."

"I am, old man--dead. Bless her! She's an angel! But I'm afraid,