rather it were Francis Sales, and he must be lonely in that big
house.'

It appeared, however, that he was not to be lonely, for Susan,
entering with hot water, let fall in her discreet, impersonal way,
another piece of gossip. 'John Gibbs says they think Mr. Francis must
be bringing home a wife, Miss Caroline. He's having some of the rooms
done up.'

'Ah!' said Caroline, and her plump elbow pressed Sophia's. 'Which
rooms, I wonder?'

'I did not inquire, Miss Caroline.'

'Then kindly inquire this afternoon, and tell him the butter is
deteriorating, but inquire first or you'll get nothing out of him.'
She turned with malicious triumph to Sophia. 'So that dream's over!'

'We shall have to break it to her gently,' Sophia said; 'but it may
not be true.'

In the dining-room over which the General's portrait tried, and
failed, to preside, as he himself had done in life, and where he was
conquered by an earlier and a later generation, by the shining
eloquence of the old furniture and silver and the living flesh and
blood of his children, Caroline gave Rose the news without, Sophia
thought, a spark of delicacy.

'They say Francis Sales is bringing home a wife.'