Her brother, who had resumed his slumberous scrutiny of the post-boy’s back, resembled her closely. His hair was more inclined to brown, and his eyes less deep in colour than hers, but he must always be known for her brother. He was a year younger than Miss Taverner, and, either from habit or carelessness, was very much in the habit of permitting her to order things as she chose.

“It is fourteen miles from Newark to Grantham,” announced Miss Taverner, raising her eyes from the Traveller’s Guide. “I had not thought it had been so far.” She bent over the book again. “It says here—it is Kearsley’s Entertaining Guide, you know, which you procured for me in Scarborough—that it is a neat and populous town on the River Witham. It is supposed to have been a Roman station, by the remains of a castle—which have been dug up. I must say, I should like to explore there if we have the time, Perry.”

“Oh, lord, you know ruins always look the same!” objected Sir Peregrine, digging his hands into the pockets of his buckskin breeches. “I tell you what it is, Judith: if you’re set on poking about all the castles on the way we shall be a full week on the road. I’m all for pushing forward to London.”

“Very well,” submitted Miss Taverner, closing the Traveller’s Guide, and laying it on the seat. “We will bespeak an early breakfast at the George, then, and you must tell them at what hour you will have the horses put to.”

“I thought we were to lie at the Angel,” remarked Sir Peregrine.

“No,” replied his sister decidedly. “You have forgot the wretched account the Mincemans gave us of the comfort to be had there. It is the George, and I wrote to engage our rooms, on account of Mrs. Minceman warning me of the fuss and to-do she had once when they would have had her go up two pair of stairs to a miserable apartment at the back of the house.”