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“She had plenty of money, had n’t she?” he asked, by way of bringing the conversation into a more rational channel. “Plenty of money! I should think so. They say her pa gave her fifty thousand pounds down on her wedding-day; not that our master wants money; he’s got enough, and to spare.” “Ah! to be sure,” answered Mr. Conyers; “that’s always the way of it. The banker gave her fifty thousand, did he? If Miss Floyd had married a poor devil, now, I don’t suppose her father would have given her fifty sixpences.” “Well, no; if she’d gone against his wishes, I don’t suppose he would. He was here in the spring — a nice, white-haired old gentleman, but failing fast.” “Failing fast. And Mrs. Mellish will come into a quarter of a million, at his death, I suppose. Good afternoon, ma’am. It’s a queer world.” Mr. Conyers took up his stick, and limped away under the trees, repeating this ejaculation as he went. It was a habit with this gentleman to attribute the good fortune of other people to some eccentricity in the machinery of life, by which he, the only really deserving person in the world, had been deprived of his natural rights. He went through the wood into a meadow where some of the horses under his charge were at grass, and spent upward of an hour lounging about the hedge-rows, sitting on gates, smoking his pipe, and staring at the animals, which seemed about the hardest work he had to do in his capacity of trainer.