nough to turn a woman's head."

"He'd be a bit difficult to live with," I says.

"Geniuses always are," she says; "it's easy enough if you just think of
them as children. He'd be a bit fractious at times, that's all.
Underneath, he's just the kindest, dearest--"

"Oh, you take your basket and go to High Wycombe," I says. "He might
do worse."

I wasn't expecting them back soon, and they didn't come back soon. In
the afternoon a motor stops at the gate, and out of it steps Miss
Bulstrode, Miss Dorton--that's the young lady that writes for him--and
Mr. Quincey. I told them I couldn't say when he'd be back, and they
said it didn't matter, they just happening to be passing.

"Did anybody call on him yesterday?" asks Miss Bulstrode, careless
like--"a lady?"

"No," I says; "you are the first as yet."

"He's brought his cook down with him, hasn't he?" says Mr. Quincey.

"Yes," I says, "and a very good cook too," which was the truth.

"I'd like just to speak a few words with her," says Miss Bulstrode.

"Sorry, m'am," I says, "but she's out at present; she's gone to
Wycombe."

"Gone to Wycombe!" they all says together.

"To market," I says. "It's a little farther, but, of course, it stands
to reason the shops there are better."

They looked at one another.

"That settles it," says Mr. Quincey. "Delicacies worthy to be set
before her not available nearer than Wycombe, but must be had. There's
going to be a pleasant little dinner here to-night."

"The hussy!" says Miss Bulstrode, under her breath.

They whispered together for a moment, then they turns to me.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Meadows," says Mr. Quincey. "You needn't say we
called. He wanted to be alone, and it might vex him."

I said I wouldn't, and I didn't. They climbed back into the motor and
went off.

Before dinner I had call to go into the woodshed. I heard a scuttling
as I opened the door. If I am not mistaken, Miss Dorton was hiding in
the corner where we keep the coke. I didn't see any good in making a
fuss, so I left her there. When I got back to the kitchen, cook asked
me if we'd got any parsley.

"You'll find a bit in the front," I says, "to the left of the gate,"
and she went out. She came back looking scared.

"Anybody keep goats round here?" she asked me.

"Not that I know of, nearer than Ibstone Common," I says.

"I could have sworn I saw a goat's face looking at me out of the
gooseberry bushes while I was picking the p