impression of Mrs. Wibberley-Stimpson's strength of
character must have been given if anyone expects that this gift would
cause her the slightest degree of shame or contrition; on the contrary,
it only served to justify her in her own eyes--not that she needed any
justification--for having appropriated those two pieces. She had merely
anticipated--and nothing would be easier than to put them back in the
box without being observed.

"A magnificent present!" pronounced Mr. Stimpson. "Really what I should
call very handsome indeed of her. If we ever had to sell this set they'd
fetch a colossal sum--_here_--simply colossal!"

"And a minute ago, Mater," said Clarence, "you accused her of being
mean!"

"Well," she replied, "and what are these things, when all is said, to
the riches we've surrendered to her? A mere trifle--which she'll never
even miss!"

"You're forgetting they were hers--not ours--all the time. And we've
left her precious little gold to go on with. It makes me sick to hear
you running her down, when, when ... well, anyhow, Mater, I'll be glad
if you won't--in _my_ hearing!"

"There's no occasion to use that tone to _me_, Clarence. I have my own
opinion of Miss Heritage, and I am not likely to alter it now. But if
you choose to keep your illusions about her, _I_ shall say nothing to
disturb them."

"You may be very clever, Clarence," said Edna, "I know you _think_ you
are, but there's _one_ subject at all events you're hopelessly ignorant
about--and that's _Women_!"

"I don't mind owning it," he retorted. "I'd have taken my oath once that
a highly superior cultivated English girl like you could never have
cottoned to any Johnny in the Ogre line of business. But you've shown me
my mistake!"

Edna, who was scarlet with wrath, would no doubt have made an obvious
rejoinder had not a diversion been caused by the caretaker, who appeared
with that morning's _Daily Mail_.

"Ah, so you managed to get a paper?" cried Clarence. "Good!" and he took
it from her hands and opened it. "I say," he announced as soon as they
were alone, "we haven't been away so long as we thought. We're still in
1914. Saturday, twenty-fifth of July."

"Is that all?" said his mother. "But I remember now that tiresome old
Court Godmother saying that Time went quicker in Maerchenland than it
does here. I don't understand how--but there's evidently _some_
difference. The twenty-fifth of July? Dear me, the Pageant must be over
and done