“Pray what may you mean, Mr. Rokesmith?” inquired Miss Bella, with languidly drooping eyelids.

“By home? I mean your father’s house at Holloway.”

She coloured under the retort⁠—so skilfully thrust, that the words seemed to be merely a plain answer, given in plain good faith⁠—and said, rather more emphatically and sharply:

“What commissions and commands are you speaking of?”

“Only little words of remembrance as I assume you send somehow or other,” replied the Secretary with his former air. “It would be a pleasure to me if you would make me the bearer of them. As you know, I come and go between the two houses every day.”

“You needn’t remind me of that, sir.”