He talked about the nectarines and plums that were soon to glorify his garden walls, about the pears and apples in his orchard, about the jokes that old Puddifoot made when he came over and examined his rheumatic limbs. He gently chaffed Ponting about his punctuality, neatness and general dislike of violent noises, and he bade Appleford to tell the housekeeper, Mrs.
I know nothing about the people, except that their blinds are invariably crooked, and every one drawn up to a different length. Most untidy the house looks! A dear friend of mine used to say Mary Appleford, whose father was the clergyman in my old home in Leicestershire charming old man who married Lady Evelyn Bruce most aristocratic family!
"No," he says, "she's going to be the Duchess of Ridingshire with the kind consent o' the kid I spoke about. If not, she'll be the Marchioness of Appleford. 'E's doing the square thing. There's going to be a quiet marriage to-morrow at the Registry Office, and then I'm off." "What need for you to go?" I says. "No need," he says; "it's a fancy o' mine.
In the morning she got an answer that seemed to excite her, and that afternoon she left; and the next I heard of her was a paragraph in the newspaper, headed "Death of the Marchioness of Appleford. Sad accident." It seemed she had gone for a row on one of the Italian lakes with no one but a boatman. A squall had come on, and the boat had capsized.
Appleford." Mary Ann no doubt had other virtues, but they are not recorded: this is sufficient for a servant. An hour's ride on the velvet cushions of a railway carriage brings us, with our Paultons friends, the Boyce boys, to Southampton, which was an old town when King Canute was young.
As long as I live I've got to have it, and as long as I live I've got to remain the Marchioness of Appleford." She finishes her soup, and pushes the plate away from her. "As long as I live," she says, talking to herself. "By Jove!" she says, starting up "why not?" "Why not what?" I says. "Nothing," she answers. "Get me an African telegraph form, and be quick about it!"
"Was Sir Mervyn buried in the church too?" "There's no monument to him, and no record in the old church documents of his grave. I should think it was much more likely that his followers were allowed to carry him to his own estate near Appleford, and bury him in the church there.
"The Marchioness of Appleford is as dead as a door-nail, and a good job too. Mrs. Captain Kit's my name, nee 'Carrots." "You said as 'ow I'd find someone to suit me 'fore long," says "Kipper" to me, "and, by Jove! you were right; I 'ave.
Appleford proved to be a delightfully quaint old country town, with twisting streets and black-and-white houses. "I'm afraid Mademoiselle will be very disappointed with the fashions. She certainly won't find Paris modes here," laughed Marjorie Butler, looking at the one row of small shop windows that appeared to satisfy the wants of the population.
At that moment Appleford, who had been absent from the room for a minute, returned with a note which he gave to the Bishop. "From Pybus, my lord," he said; "some one has ridden over with it." At the word "Pybus" there was an electric silence in the room. The Bishop tore open the letter and read it. He half started from his chair with a little exclamation of distress and grief.