“You spoke to the mistress, did you?” inquired Bradley, with that former composure of voice and feature that seemed inconsistent, and with averted eyes.

“Poof! Yes,” said Riderhood, withdrawing his attention from the smoke. “I spoke to her. I didn’t say much to her. She was put in a fluster by my dropping in among the young ladies (I never did set up for a lady’s man), and she took me into her parlour to hope as there was nothink wrong. I tells her, ‘O no, nothink wrong. The master’s my wery good friend.’ But I see how the land laid, and that she was comfortable off.”

Bradley put the purse in his pocket, grasped his left wrist with his right hand, and sat rigidly contemplating the fire.

“She couldn’t live more handy to you than she does,” said Riderhood, “and when I goes home with you (as of course I am a going), I recommend you to clean her out without loss of time. You can marry her, arter you and me have come to a settlement. She’s nice-looking, and I know you can’t be keeping company with no one else, having been so lately disapinted in another quarter.”