he honor of meeting you. Remarkably
numerous, the Broads, sir--situated between this and the sea. About
three miles from the sea, Mr. Midwinter--about three miles. Mostly
shallow, sir, with rivers running between them. Beautiful; solitary.
Quite a watery country, Mr. Midwinter; quite separate, as it were, in
itself. Parties sometimes visit them, sir--pleasure parties in boats.
It's quite a little network of lakes, or, perhaps--yes, perhaps, more
correctly, pools. There is good sport in the cold weather. The wild fowl
are quite numerous. Yes; the Broads would repay a visit, Mr. Midwinter.
The next time you are walking that way. The distance from here to Little
Gill Beck, and then from Little Gill Beck to Girdler Broad, which is the
first you come to, is altogether not more--" In sheer nervous inability
to leave off, he would apparently have gone on talking of the Norfolk
Broads for the rest of the evening, if one of his two listeners had not
unceremoniously cut him short before he could find his way into a new
sentence.

"Are the Broads within an easy day's drive there and back from this
house?" asked Allan, feeling, if they were, that the place for the
picnic was discovered already.

"Oh, yes, sir; a nice drive--quite a nice easy drive from this beautiful
place!"

They were by this time ascending the portico steps, Allan leading the
way up, and calling to Midwinter and Mr. Bashwood to follow him into the
library, where there was a lighted lamp.

In the interval which elapsed before the wine made its appearance,
Midwinter looked at his chance acquaintance of the high-road with
strangely mingled feelings of compassion and distrust--of compassion
that strengthened in spite of him; of distrust that persisted in
diminishing, try as he might to encourage it to grow. There, perched
comfortless on the edge of his chair, sat the poor broken-down, nervous
wretch, in his worn black garments, with his watery eyes, his honest old
outspoken wig, his miserable mohair stock, and his false teeth that were
incapable of deceiving anybody--there he sat, politely ill at ease;
now shrinking in the glare of the lamp, now wincing under the shock
of Allan's sturdy voice; a man with the wrinkles of sixty years in his
face, and the manners of a child in the presence of strangers; an object
of pity surely, if ever there was a pitiable object yet!

"Whatever else you're afraid of, Mr. Bashwood," cried Allan, pouring out
a glass of wine, "don'