The bell in the private room rang at that moment; and the landlady's
daughter, it is needless to say, took the opportunity of forming her
own opinion of Mr. Hugh Mountjoy.

She returned with a letter in her hand, consumed by a vain longing for
the advantages of gentle birth. "Ah, mother, if I was a young lady of
the higher classes, I know whose wife I should like to be!" Not
particularly interested in sentimental aspirations, the landlady asked
to see Mr. Mountjoy's letter. The messenger who delivered it was to
wait for an answer. It was addressed to: "Miss Henley, care of Clarence
Vimpany, Esquire, Honeybuzzard." Urged by an excited imagination, the
daughter longed to see Miss Henley. The mother was at a loss to
understand why Mr. Mountjoy should have troubled himself to write the
letter at all. "If he knows the young lady who is staying at the
doctor's house," she said, "why doesn't he call on Miss Henley?" She
handed the letter back to her daughter. "There! let the ostler take it;
he's got nothing to do."

"No, mother. The ostler's dirty hands mustn't touch it--I'll take the
letter myself. Perhaps I may see Miss Henley." Such was the impression
which Mr. Hugh Mountjoy had innocently produced on a sensitive young
person, condemned by destiny to the barren sphere of action afforded by
a country inn!

The landlady herself took the dinner upstairs--a first course of mutton
chops and potatoes, cooked to a degree of imperfection only attained in
an English kitchen. The sour French wine was still on the good woman's
mind. "What would you choose to drink, sir?" she asked. Mr. Mountjoy
seemed to feel no interest in what he might have to drink. "We have
some French wine, sir."