ommon woman. She simply
could not help it; all her people had done this. Their nurses breathed
above them in their cradles something that, inhaled into their systems,
ever afterwards prevented them from taking good, clear breaths. And her
manner! Ah! her manner--it concealed the inner woman so as to leave
doubt of her existence!

Shelton listened to the kindly briskness with which she dwelt upon the
under-gardener.

"Poor Bunyan! he lost his wife six months ago, and was quite cheerful
just at first, but now he 's really too distressin'. I 've done all I
can to rouse him; it's so melancholy to see him mopin'. And, my dear
Dick, the way he mangles the new rose-trees! I'm afraid he's goin' mad;
I shall have to send him away; poor fellow!"

It was clear that she sympathised with Bunyan, or, rather, believed him
entitled to a modicum of wholesome grief, the loss of wives being a
canonised and legal, sorrow. But excesses! O dear, no!

"I 've told him I shall raise his wages," she sighed. "He used to be
such a splendid gardener! That reminds me, my dear Dick; I want to have
a talk with you. Shall we go in to lunch?"

Consulting the memorandum-book in which she had been noting the case of
Mrs. Hopkins, she slightly preceded Shelton to the house.

It was somewhat late that afternoon when Shelton had his "wigging"; nor
did it seem to him, hypnotised by the momentary absence of Antonia, such
a very serious affair.

"Now, Dick," the Honourable Mrs. Dennant said, in her decisive drawl, "I
don't think it 's right to put ideas into Antonia's head."

"Ideas!" murmured Shelton in confusion.

"We all know," continued Mrs. Dennant, "that things are not always what
they ought to be."

Shelton looked at her; she was seated at her writing-table, addressing in
her large, free writing a dinner invitation to a bishop. There was not
the faintest trace of awkwardness about her, yet Shelton could not help a
certain sense of shock. If she--she--did not think things were what they
ought to be--in a bad way things must be indeed!

"Things!" he muttered.

Mrs. Dennant looked at him firmly but kindly with the eyes that would
remind him of a hare's.

"She showed me some of your letters, you know. Well, it 's not a bit of
use denyin', my dear Dick, that you've been thinkin' too much lately."

Shelton perceived that he had done her an injustice; she handled "things"
as she handled under-gardeners--put them away when they