"You don't mean to say that breakfast isn't ready! Surely, my dear,
you could ring the bell?"

"I have done so," replied the vicar, in a tone of melancholy
abstraction.

Mrs. Lashmar rang with emphasis, and for the next five minutes her
contralto swelled through the vicarage, rendering inaudible the
replies she kept demanding from a half rebellious, half intimidated
servant. She was not personally a coarse woman, and her manners did
not grossly offend against the convention of good-breeding; but her
nature was self-assertive. She could not brook a semblance of
disregard for her authority, yet, like women in general, had no idea
of how to rule. The small, round face had once been pretty; now,
with its prominent eyes, in-drawn lips, and obscured chin, it
inspired no sympathetic emotion, rather an uneasiness and an
inclination for retreat. In good humour or in ill, Mrs. Lashmar was
aggressive. Her smile conveyed an amiable defiance; her look of
grave interest alarmed and subdued.

"I have a line from Dyce," remarked the vicar, as at length he
applied himself to his lukewarm egg and very hard toast. "He thinks
of running down."

"When?"

"He doesn't say."

"Then why did he write? I've no patience with those vague projects.
Why did he write until he had decided on the day?"