guidly poured
some of his favourite eau-de-cologne over the palms of his hands, nodded a
farewell, and, in a whisper, wished me good-night.

'Dudley's come,' whispered Milly, taking me under the arm as I entered the
lobby. 'But I don't care: he never gives me nout; and he gets money from
Governor, as much as he likes, and I never a sixpence. It's a shame!'

So there was no great love between the only son and only daughter of the
younger line of the Ruthyns.

I was curious to learn all that Milly could tell me of this new inmate of
Bartram-Haugh; and Milly was communicative without having a great deal to
relate, and what I heard from her tended to confirm my own disagreeable
impressions about him. She was afraid of him. He was a 'woundy ugly
customer in a wax, she could tell me.' He was the only one 'she ever knowed
as had pluck to jaw the Governor.' But he was 'afeard on the Governor,
too.'

His visits to Bartram-Haugh, I heard, were desultory; and this, to my
relief, would probably not outlast a week or a fortnight. 'He _was_ such a
fashionable cove:' he was always 'a gadding about, mostly to Liverpool and
Birmingham, and sometimes to Lunnun, itself.' He was 'keeping company
one time with Beauty, Governor thought, and he was awfully afraid he'd a
married her; but that was all bosh and nonsense; and Beauty would have none
of his chaff and wheedling, for she liked Tom Brice;' and Milly thought
that Dudley never 'cared a crack of a whip for her.' He used to go to the
Windmill to have 'a smoke with Pegtop;' and he was a member of the Feltram
Club, that met at the 'Plume o' Feathers.' He was 'a rare good shot,' she
heard; and 'he was before the justices for poaching, but they could make
nothing of it.' And the Governor said 'it was all through spite of him--for
they hate us for being better blood than they.' And 'all but the squires
and those upstart folk loves Dudley, he is so handsome and gay--though he
be a bit cross at home.' And, 'Governor says, he'll be a Parliament man
yet, spite o' them all.'

Next morning, when our breakfast was nearly ended, Dudley tapped at the
window with the end of his clay pipe--a 'churchwarden' Milly called
it--just such a long curved pipe as Joe Willet is made to hold between his
lips in those charming illustrations of 'Barnaby Rudge'--which we all know
so well--and lifting his 'wide-awake' with a burlesque salutation, which, I
suppose, would have charmed the 'Plume of Feathers,' he drop