can come," said Mrs. Windsor. "She makes our rustic
party complete."

"We shall certainly be very rustic," said Lady Locke, with a smile, as
she leaned back in her chair and took a cup of tea.

"Yes, deliciously so. Madame Valtesi goes everywhere. She is one of the
most entertaining people in London. Nobody knows who she is. I have
heard that she is a Russian spy, and that her husband was a courier, or
a chef, or perhaps both. She has got some marvellous diamond earrings
that were given to her by a Grand Duke, and she has lots of money. She
runs a theatre, because she likes a certain actor, and she pays Mr.
Amarinth's younger brother to go about with her and converse. He is very
fat, and very uncouth, but he talks well. Madame Valtesi has a great
deal of influence."

"In what department of life?"

"Oh--er--in every department, I believe. I really think my week will be
a success this year. Last year it was rather a failure. I took down
Professor Smith, and he had a fit. So inconsiderate of him. In the
country, too, where it is so difficult to get a doctor. We had in the
veterinary surgeon in a hurry, but all he could say was 'Fire him!' and
as I was not very intimate with the Professor, I hardly liked to do
that. He has such a very violent temper. This year we shall have a good
deal of music. Lord Reggie and Mr. Amarinth both play, and they are
arranging a little programme. All old music, you know. They hate Wagner
and the moderns. They prefer the ancient church music, Mozart and Haydn
and Paganini, or is it Palestrina? I never can remember--and that sort
of thing, so refining. Mr. Amarinth says that nothing has been done in
music for the last hundred years. Personally, I prefer the Intermezzo
out of 'Cavalleria' to anything I ever heard, but of course I am wrong.
You have finished? Then I think I shall go and lie down before dressing
for dinner. It is so hot. A breath of country air will be delicious."

"Yes, I confess I am looking forward with interest to the Surrey week,"
said Lady Locke, still smiling.

V.

Mrs. Windsor's cottage in Surrey stood on the outskirts of a perfectly
charming village called Chenecote, a village just like those so often
described in novels of the day. The homes of the poor people were model
homes, with lattice windows, and modern improvements. The church was
very small, but very trim. The windows were filled with stained glass,
designed by Burne-Jones and executed by Morris,