“You don’t mean Dimity Stone?” murmured Wolf; and he contemplated in a rapid inward vision that sly, misogynistic eye fixed sardonically on the old woman’s wizened back, and the chivalrous grand air with which the coachman must have conversed with her, as he held the reins.

“I couldn’t let her walk,” went on the squire. “And the Otters had left her behind. I suppose they hadn’t room. They came in a wretched conveyance. I suppose they got it from the hotel.” He swung about and surveyed the crowd with indulgent arrogance. “I can just see the good Darnley from here,” he said. “There!⁠—can’t you? I wonder where that terrible person who’s always drunk has hidden himself! I saw him , too, a moment ago. And, by gad, there’s Tilly-Valley! Let’s go and stir him up. He won’t expect me to speak to him. You watch his face, my boy, when I nudge his elbow. Eh? What? Come on.” And greatly to Wolf’s annoyance he found himself compelled to support his limping employer on his arm, while the two of them pushed their way towards the clergyman.