ugh," said Mrs.
Trent, deliberately, "I think I should be more comfortable if I wasn't
in a house where Mr. Oliver visited."

"Oliver! Do you mean my brother Oliver? Why do you call him _Mr._
Oliver? It is so absurd to keep up these class-distinctions."

"So I think," said Mary, "but when other people keep them up it's not
much use for me to be the first to cast them over board. Your brother
Oliver comes to the house where I'm living much oftener than I think he
ought."

"What house is it? You never told me."

"It's Mr. Brooke's. Mr. Caspar Brooke--him as wrote 'The Unexplored.' I
brought it to you to read, I remember--a good long time ago."

"Awful rot it was too!" said Francis, contemptuously. "However, I
suppose it paid. What are you doing there? Wasn't it his wife who ran
away from him? I remember the row some years ago--before I went under.
Is she dead?"

"No, she's living with her father, Lord Courtleroy. It's her daughter
I've come to wait on: Miss Lesley Brooke."

"Brooke's daughter!" said Francis, thoughtfully. "I remember Brooke. Not
half a bad fellow. Lent me ten pounds once, and never asked for it
again. So it's _Brooke's_ daughter you--hm--live with. Sort of
companion, you are, eh, Mary?"

"Maid," said Mary, stolidly. "Ladies' maid. And Miss Lesley's the
sweetest young lady I ever come across."

Francis shrugged his shoulders. "Your employment is causing you to
relapse into the manner--and grammar--of your original station, Mary.
May I suggest 'came' instead of 'come'?"

Mrs. Trent looked at him with a still disdain. "Suggest what you like,"
she said, "and think what you like of me. I never took myself to be your
equal in education and all that. I may be your equal in sense and heart
and morals; but of course that goes for nothing with such as you."

"Don't be savage, Mary," said Francis, in a conciliatory tone. "I only
want you to improve yourself a little, when you can. You're the best
woman in the world--nobody knows it better than I do--and you should not
take offense at a trifle. So you like Brooke's daughter, eh?"

"Yes, I like her. But I don't like your brother Oliver."

"I know that. What is he doing at Brooke's house? Let me see--he isn't
engaged to _that_ girl? It's the actress he's going to marry, isn't it?"

He had finished his meal by this time, and was smoking one of the cigars
that his wife had brought him. She, meanwhile, turned up her sleeves,
and made ready to wash the cup