"That's what's-_meant_ to do," Captain Mottie has the audacity to
say, very unwisely. Of course no one takes the faintest notice. They
all with one consent refuse indignantly to see it; and Longshank's
inevitable "Ha, ha!" falls horribly flat. Only Molly, after a wild
struggle with her better feelings, gives way, and bursts into an
irrepressible fit of laughter, for which the poor captain is intensely
grateful.

Mrs. Darley, who is doing a little mild running with this would-be Joe
Miller, encouraged by Molly, laughs too, and gives the captain to
understand that she thinks it a joke, which is even more than could be
expected of her.

A sound of footsteps upon the gravel beneath redeems any further
awkwardness. They all simultaneously crane their necks over the iron
railings, and all at a glance see Mr. Amherst slowly, but surely,
advancing on them.

He is not alone. Beside him, affording him the support of one arm,
walks a short, stout, pudgy little man, dressed with elaborate care,
and bearing all the distinguishing marks of the lowest breeding in his
face and figure.

It is Mr. Buscarlet, the attorney, without whose advice Mr. Amherst
rarely takes a step in business matters, and for whom--could he be
guilty of such a thing--he has a decided weakness. Mr. Amherst is
frigid and cutting. Mr. Buscarlet is vulgar and gushing. They say
extremes meet. In this case they certainly do, for perhaps he is the
only person in the wide world with whom old Amherst gets on.

With Marcia he is a bugbear,--a _bete noire_. She does not even
trouble herself to tolerate him, which is the one unwise step the wise
Marcia took on her entrance into Herst.

Now, as he comes puffing and panting up the steps to the veranda, she
deliberately turns her back on him.

"Pick up the ghastly remains, Potts," Sir Penthony says, hurriedly,
alluding to the shattered china. Mr. Amherst is still on the lowest
step, having discarded Mr. Buscarlet's arm. "If there is one thing mine
host abhors more than another, it is broken china. If he catches you
red-handed, I shudder for the consequences."

"What an ogre you make him out!" says Molly. "Has he, then, a private
Bastile, or a poisoned dagger, this terrible old man?"

"Neither. He clings to the traditions of the 'good old times.' Skinning
alive, which was a favorite pastime in the dark ages, is the sort of
thing he affects. Dear old gentleman, he cannot bear to see ancient
usages sink into oblivio