'By at least half a century,' said Mr. Dutton, 'with all deference to
this young lady's experience.'

'It was out of their own mouths,' cried the girl defiantly. 'That's
all I know about county people, and so I hope it will be.'

'Come in, my dear, you are talking very fast,' interposed Mrs.
Egremont, with some pain in the soft sweet voice, which, if it had
been a little stronger, would have been the best in the choir.

These houses in St. Ambrose's Road were semi-detached. The pair
which the party had reached had their entrances at the angles, with a
narrow gravel path leading by a tiny grass plat to each. One, which
was covered with a rich pall of purple clematis, was the home of Mrs.
Egremont, her aunt, and Nuttie; the other, adorned with a Gloire de
Dijon rose in second bloom, was the abode of Mary Nugent, with her
mother, the widow of a naval captain. Farther on, with adjoining
gardens, was another couple of houses, in one of which lived Mr.
Dutton; in the other lodged the youth, Gerard Godfrey, together with
the partner of the principal medical man. The opposite neighbours
were a master of the Modern School and a scholar. Indeed, the saying
of the vicar, the Rev. Francis Spyers, was, and St. Ambrose's Road
was proud of it, that it was a professional place. Every one had
something to do either with schools or umbrellas, scarcely excepting
the doctor and the solicitor, for the former attended the pupils and
the latter supplied them. Mr. Dutton was a partner in the umbrella
factory, and lived, as the younger folk said, as the old bachelor of
the Road. Had he not a housekeeper, a poodle, and a cat; and was not
his house, with lovely sill boxes full of flowers in the windows, the
neatest of the neat; and did not the tiny conservatory over his