Going to a side table, be mixed for himself, in an old battered silver
cap, a generous draught of bombo; then, with the drink in his hand, walked
heavily across the uncarpeted floor to his armchair, which creaked under
his weight as he sank into its leathern lap. He put down the rum and water
with so unsteady a hand that the liquor spilled, and when he refilled his
pipe half the contents of his tobacco box showered down upon his frayed
and ancient and unclean coat and breeches. From the pocket of the latter
he now drew forth a silver coin, which he balanced for a moment upon his
fat forefinger, and finally sent spinning across the table to Audrey.

"'Tis the dregs of thy guinea, child, that Paris and Hugon and I drank at
the crossroads last night. 'Burn me,' says I to them, 'if that long-legged
lass of mine shan't have a drop in the cup!' And say Hugon"--

What Hugon said did not appear, or was confided to the depths of the
tankard which the minister raised to his lips. Audrey looked at the
splendid shilling gleaming upon the table beside her, but made no motion
toward taking it into closer possession. A little red had come into the
clear brown of her cheeks. She was a young girl, with her dreams and
fancies, and the golden guinea would have made a dream or two come true.

"'Query the first,'" she read slowly, "'How long since you went to the
plantations as missionary?'"

Darden, leaning back in his chair, with his eyes uplifted through the
smoke clouds to the ceiling, took his pipe from his mouth, for the better
answering of his diocesan. "'My Lord, thirteen years come St. Swithin's
day,'" he dictated. "'Signed, Gideon Darden.' Audrey, do not forget thy
capitals. Thirteen years! Lord, Lord, the years, how they fly! Hast it
down, Audrey?"