Next morning Mr. Mashlim came early into my bed-room before I was fully dressed: his appearance was sedate and thoughtful.

“Well, Sir,” I cried immediately, on seeing him, “have you fixed on the colour of your stockings?”

“I have been troubled about it,” was his sober and considerate answer. “Surely you could not be serious when you spoke of red or yellow. I never heard of such a thing: to be sure, our farm's out of the world. But although I have only a small experience in Parliamenting, I’ll be plain with you, Mr. Bogle Corbet; from all that I have seen of Members of Parliament, I have a notion that Statesmen are the only things that seem greatest at distance; and really I cannot work myself into a proper fear of this Secretary of State. In short, Mr. Bogle Corbet, though in a way Mr. Macindoe may have an experience, I doubt he's not much more acquaint with Secretaries of State than myself. It has been as far from his line as mine; and so in this matter I would beg your own advice, for I am loth to make a play-actor of myself, even for a gude bargain.”

This was as I anticipated, and it is therefore needless to say, that I told him to think nothing about the colour or quality of his hose, but to dress as his own good plain sense directed him, and to expect nothing in the gentleman he was to see, but a common man like himself—perhaps, in some respects, no superior. His mind was instantly relieved, but it was far different with Mr. Macindoe.