istory is that an
Empire maintained by brute force shall perish by brute force!'

'Ah,' he fixed her with those eyes of his. 'I see where you are going.'

'You can't either of you go anywhere,' said Mrs. Freddy, appearing
through the balcony window, 'till you've seen the children's pictures.'
Vida's eye had once more fallen on the reproduction of one of the Cretan
frescoes with a sudden intensification of interest.

'What is it?' Borrodaile asked, looking over her shoulder.

Woman-like she offered the man the outermost fringe of her thought.
'Even Lady Whyteleafe,' she said, 'would be satisfied with the attention
they paid to their hair.'

'Come, you two.' Mrs. Freddy was at last impatient. 'Jean's got the
_really_ beautiful pictures, showing them to Geoffrey. Let us all go
down to help him to decide which is the best.'

'Geoffrey?'

'Geoffrey Stonor--you know him, of course. But nobody knows the very
nicest side of Geoffrey, do they?' she appealed to Borrodaile,--'nobody
who hasn't seen him with children?'

'I never saw him with children,' said Vida, buttoning the last button of
her glove.

'Well, come down and watch him with Sara and Cecil. They perfectly adore
him.'

'No, it's too late.'

But the fond mother drew her friend to the window. 'You can see them
from here.'

Vida was not so hurried, apparently, but what she could stand there
taking in the picture of Sara and Cecil climbing about their big, kind
cousin, with Jean and Mr. Freddy looking on.

'Children!' Their mother waved a handkerchief. 'Here's another friend!
Chil---- They're too absorbed to notice,' she said apologetically,
turning to find Vida had left the window, and was saying good-bye to
Borrodaile.

'Oh, yes,' he agreed, 'they won't care about anybody else while Geoffrey
is there.' Lord Borrodaile stooped and picked up a piece of folded paper
off the sofa. 'Did I drop that?' He opened it. '_Votes for_----' He read
the two words out in an accent that seemed to brand them with
foolishness, even with vulgarity. 'No, decidedly I did not drop it.'

He was conveying the sheet to the wastepaper basket as one who piously
removes some unsavoury litter out of the way of those who walk
delicately. Miss Levering arrested him with outstretched hand.

'Do you want it?' His look adjured her to say, 'No.'

'Yes, I want it.'

'What for?' he persisted.

'I want it for an address there is on it.'

CHAPTER XI

It was Friday, and Mrs.