Barold was doomed this morning to make remarks of a nature objectionable
to his revered relation. On their way they passed Mr. Burmistone's mill,
which was at work in all its vigor, with a whir and buzz of machinery,
and a slight odor of oil in its surrounding atmosphere.

"Ah!" said Mr. Barold, putting his single eyeglass into his eye, and
scanning it after the manner of experts. "I did not think you had any
thing of that sort here. Who put it up?"

"The man's name," replied Lady Theobald severely, "is Burmistone."

"Pretty good idea, isn't it?" remarked Barold. "Good for the place--and
all that sort of thing."

"To my mind," answered my lady, "it is the worst possible thing which
could have happened."

Mr. Francis Barold dropped his eyeglass dexterously, and at once lapsed
into his normal condition--which was a condition by no means favorable
to argument.

"Think so?" he said slowly. "Pity, isn't it, under the circumstances?"

And really there was nothing at all for her ladyship to do but preserve a
lofty silence. She had scarcely recovered herself when they reached the
station, and it was necessary to say farewell as complacently as
possible.

"We will hope to see you again before many days," she said with dignity,
if not with warmth.