y, Miss Ethel."

"No." Mrs. Bradford, who had been silent, as she often was,
unexpectedly entered the conversation, saying in her heavy voice:
"Things will never be the same again." And a brief silence followed
her words. You could fancy them echoing in every heart there.

"I remember getting oranges twelve a penny in Flodmouth," continued
Mrs. Bradford, stirred to unwonted intellectual effort. "Twelve a
penny! Perhaps you don't believe me, but I did."

No one taking up the gage which Mrs. Bradford thus threw down, the
guests said farewell and then went out into the starlight.

As they walked along, all Laura's thoughts were about the lover waiting
for her; but Mr. and Mrs. Graham could not get rid of that slight sense
of inward discomfort--stirred afresh by Mrs. Bradford's first
remark--which many middle-aged people experience as a result of Fate's
ruthlessly quick forcing of new wine into old bottles.

As they passed the new streets there was an odd light here and there in
the shadowy rows of houses, and when they turned the corner the
sea-wind was full in their faces. The glass roof of the Promenade Hall
glimmered faintly under the immense sweep of starlit sky, and the quiet
waves drew away--"C-raunch! C-r-raunch!"--from the piece of gravelled
shore which the tide had reached. The good-sized, semi-detached houses
built in a row opposite the promenade stood all so black and lifeless
that Mr. Graham's click of the iron gate sounded quite roistering on
the still night. Then the front door opened and light streamed out,
illuminating the figure of a man of medium height, rather stockily
built, who came quickly down the little path, calling out as he
approached: "I'd almost given you up, Laura. I should have fetched you
from the Cottage, only I thought the old girls would cut up rough. I
suppose they haven't forgiven me for that notice board yet? They think
I'm a low fellow, I know."

"No, no," said Laura, smiling. "A man with the Wilson blood in his
veins couldn't be really low, Godfrey--only misguided. You know they
think even a bad Wilson must after all be slightly better at the bottom
than other people."

"Jolly good theory," he said, throwing out his broad chest and laughing
down at his lady, who had slipped her hand through his arm. "I hope
they converted you."

Then they all laughed--though there was nothing at all amusing in his
remark--simply because he was so sure of himself and seemed to