It was past midnight when the Tempest carriage drove through the dark rhododendron shrubberies up to the old Tudor porch. There was a great pile of logs burning in the hall, giving the home-comers cheery welcome. There was an antique silver spirit stand with its accompaniments on one little table for the Squire, and there was another little table on the opposite side of the hearth for Mrs. Tempest, with a dainty tea-service sparkling and shining in the red glow.
A glance at these arrangements would have told you that there were old servants at the Abbey House, servants who knew their master's and mistress's ways, and for whom service was more or less a labour of love.
"How nice," said the lady, with a contented sigh. "Pauline has thought of my cup of tea."
"And Forbes has not forgotten my soda-water," remarked the Squire.
He said nothing about the brandy, which he was pouring into the tall glass with a liberal hand.
Pauline came to take off her mistress's cloak, and was praised for her thoughtfulness about the tea, and then dismissed for the night.
The Squire liked to stretch his legs before his own fireside after dining out; and with the Squire, as with Mr. Squeers, the leg-stretching process involved the leisurely consumption of a good deal of brandy and water.
Mr. and Mrs. Tempest talked over the Briarwood dinner-party, and arrived--with perfect good nature--at the conclusion that it had been a failure.
"The dinner was excellent," said the Squire, "but the wine went round too slow; my glasses were empty half the time. That's always the way when you've a woman at the helm. She never fills her cellars properly, or trusts her butler thoroughly."
"The dresses were lovely," said Mrs. Tempest, "but everyone looked bored. How did you like my dress, Edward? I think it's rather good style. Theodore will charge me horribly for it, I daresay."
"I don't know much about your dress, Pam, but you were the prettiest woman in the room."
"Oh Edward, at my age!" exclaimed Mrs. Tempest, with a pleased look, "when there was that lovely Lady Mabel Ashbourne."
"Do you call her lovely?--I don't. Lips too thin; waist too slim; too much blood, and too little flesh."
"Oh, but surely, Edward, she is grace itself; quite an ethereal creature. If Violet had more of that refined air----"