ma' every day. That Mr. Courtier, who
wrote the book against War--rather cool for a man who's been a soldier of
fortune, don't you think?--is staying at the inn, working for the
Radical. He knows her, too--and, one can only hope, for Miltoun's sake,
too well--an attractive person, with red moustaches, rather nice and mad.
Bertie has just come down; I must get him to have a talk with Miltoun,
and see if he cant find out how the land lies. One can trust
Bertie--he's really very astute. I must say, that she's quite a
sweet-looking woman; but absolutely nothing's known of her here except
that she divorced her husband. How does one find out about people?
Miltoun's being so extraordinarily strait-laced makes it all the more
awkward. The earnestness of this rising generation is most remarkable.
I don't remember taking such a serious view of life in my youth."

Lady Casterley lowered the coronetted sheet of paper. The ghost of a
grimace haunted her face--she had not forgotten her daughter's youth.
Raising the letter again, she read on:

"I'm sure Geoffrey and I feel years younger than either Miltoun or
Agatha, though we did produce them. One doesn't feel it with Bertie or
Babs, luckily. The war scare is having an excellent effect on Miltoun's
candidature. Claud Harbinger is with us, too, working for Miltoun; but,
as a matter of fact, I think he's after Babs. It's rather melancholy,
when you think that Babs isn't quite twenty--still, one can't expect
anything else, I suppose, with her looks; and Claud is rather a fine
specimen. They talk of him a lot now; he's quite coming to the fore
among the young Tories."

Lady Casterley again lowered the letter, and stood listening. A
prolonged, muffled sound as of distant cheering and groans had penetrated
the great conservatory, vibrating among the pale petals of the lilies and
setting free their scent in short waves of perfume. She passed into the
hall; where, stood an old man with sallow face and long white whiskers.

"What was that noise, Clifton?"

"A posse of Socialists, my lady, on their way to Putney to hold a
demonstration; the people are hooting them. They've got blocked just
outside the gates."

"Are they making speeches?"

"They are talking some kind of rant, my lady."

"I'll go and hear them. Give me my black stick."

Above the velvet-dark, flat-toughed cedar trees, which rose like pagodas
of ebony on either side of the drive, the sky hung lowering in o