bones are rattling in my coffin, and she will be laying down the
laws of literature long after your statue has become a familiar
ornament of Westminster Abbey. She's a wonderful woman, but a
trifle masterful."

He laughed, but I detected a touch of irritation in his voice. My
host looked a man wishful to be masterful himself. I do not think
he quite relished the calm way in which this grand dame took
possession of all things around her, himself and his work included.

"Did you ever hear the story of the marriage?" he asked.

"No," I replied, "whose marriage? The earl's?"

"I should call it the countess's," he answered. "It was the gossip
of the county when I first came here, but other curious things have
happened among us to push it gradually out of memory. Most people,
I really believe, have quite forgotten that the Countess of -- once
served behind a baker's counter."

"You don't say so," I exclaimed. The remark, I admit, sounds weak
when written down; the most natural remarks always do.

"It's a fact," said the doctor, "though she does not suggest the
shop-girl, does she? But then I have known countesses, descended
in a direct line from William the Conqueror, who did, so things
balance one another. Mary, Countess of --, was, thirty years ago,
Mary Sewell, daughter of a Taunton linen-draper. The business,
profitable enough as country businesses go, was inadequate for the
needs of the Sewell family, consisting, as I believe it did, of