she knew his reputation.

He was a fat man of middle age, with a thin voice and jerky manner. "I
had Forbes yesterday, Mrs. Chiverton, to speak to me in your name," he
announced. "Do you know him for the officious fellow he is, for ever
meddling in other people's matters? For ten years he has pestered me
about Morte, which is no concern of mine."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Gifford, it is very much your concern," Mrs.
Chiverton said with calm deliberation. "Eleven laborers, employed by
farmers on your estate, representing with their families over thirty
souls, live in hovels at Morte owned by you or your agent Blagg. They
are unfit for human habitation. Mr. Chiverton has given orders for the
erection of groups of cottages sufficient to house the men employed on
our farms, and they will be removed to them in the spring. But Mr.
Fairfax and other gentlemen who also own land in the bad neighborhood of
Morte object to the hovels our men vacate being left as a harbor for the
ragamuffinery of the district. They require to have them cleared away;
most of these, again, are in Blagg's hands."

"The remedy is obvious: those gentlemen do not desire to be munificent
at Blagg's expense--let them purchase his property. No doubt he has his
price."

"Yes, Mr. Gifford, but a most extortionate price. And it is said he
cannot sell without your consent."

Mr. Gifford grew very red, and with stammering elocution repelled the
implication: "Blagg wants nobody's consent but his own. The fact is, the
tenements pay better to keep than they would pay to sell; naturally, he
prefers to keep them."

"But if you would follow Mr. Chiverton's example, and let the whole
place be cleared of its more respectable inhabitants at one blow, he
would lose that inducement."

Mr. Gifford laughed, amazed at this suggestion--so like a woman, as he
afterwards said. "Blagg has served me many years--I have the highest
respect for him. I cannot see that I am called on to conspire against
his interests."

Mrs. Chiverton's countenance had lost its serenity, and would not soon
recover it, but Bessie Fairfax could hardly believe her ears when the
artist muttered, "Somebody take that chattering fool away;" and up he
jumped, cast down his palette, and rushed out of the gallery. Mrs.
Chiverton looked after him and whispered to Bessie, "What is it?" "Work
over for the day," whispered Bessie again, controlling an inclination to
laugh. "The temperament of genius disturbe