ed times announced the failure of supplies, the delay of
carriages, the general hopelessness of the situation. There was tragedy
in it of the most solemn kind, but there was a certain enjoyment too.

"What is the matter?" said Sir Tom; and then he jumped to his feet.
"Something is wrong with the baby," he cried.

"No, Sir Thomas; Mr. Randolph is pretty well, thank you, Sir Thomas. It
is about something else that I made so bold. There is Antonio, sir, in
the servants' hall; Madame the Countess' man."

"Oh, the Countess," cried Sir Tom, and he seated himself again; then
said, with the confidence of a man to the follower who has been his
companion in many straits, "You gave me a fright, Williams. I thought
that little shaver---- But what's the matter with Antonio? Can't you keep
a fellow like that in order without bothering me?"

"Sir Thomas," said Williams, solemnly, "I am not one as troubles my
master when things are straightforward. But them foreigners, you never
know when you have 'em. And an idle man about an establishment, that is,
so to speak, under nobody, and for ever a-kicking of his heels, and
following the women servants about, and not a blessed hand's turn to
do"--a tone of personal offence came into Williams' complaint; "there is
a deal to do in this house," he added, "and neither me nor any of the
men haven't got a moment to spare. Why, there's your hunting things, Sir
Thomas, is just a man's work. And to see that fellow loafing, and
a-hanging on about the women--I don't wonder, Sir Thomas, that it's more
than any man can stand," said Williams, lighting up. He was a married
man himself, with a very respectable family in the village, but he was
not too old to be able to understand the feelings of John and Charles,
whose hearts were lacerated by the success of the Italian fellow with
his black eyes.

"Well, well, don't worry me," said Sir Tom, "take him by the collar and
give him a shake. You're big enough." Then he laughed unfeelingly, which
Williams did not expect. "Too big, eh, Will? Not so ready for a shindy
as we used to be." This identification of himself with his factotum was
mere irony, and Williams felt it; for Sir Tom, if perhaps less slim than
in his young days, was still what Williams called a "fine figger of a
man;" whereas the butler had widened much round the waist, and was apt
to puff as he came upstairs, and no longer contemplated a shindy as a
possibility at all.

"Sir Thomas," he said,