“How is Mr. Harthouse, Mr. Tom?” asked Mrs. Sparsit.

“Oh, he’s all right,” said Tom.

“Where may he be at present?” Mrs. Sparsit asked in a light conversational manner, after mentally devoting the whelp to the Furies for being so uncommunicative.

“He is shooting in Yorkshire,” said Tom. “Sent Loo a basket half as big as a church, yesterday.”

“The kind of gentleman, now,” said Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly, “whom one might wager to be a good shot!”