hed with him twice
in Medchester, and more often still the Enton barouche had been kept
waiting at his office whilst Lady Caroom and Sybil descended upon him
with invitations from Lord Arranmore. After his talk with Mr. Ascough
he put the matter behind him, but it remained at times an inexplicable
puzzle.

On the evening of this particular visit he found Sybil alone in a recess
of the drawing-room with a newspaper in her hand. She greeted him with
obvious pleasure.

"Do come and tell me about things, Mr. Brooks," she begged. "I have
been reading the local paper. Is it true that there are actually people
starving in Medchester?"

"There is a great deal of distress," he admitted, gravely. "I am afraid
that it is true."

She looked at him with wide-open eyes.

"But I don't understand," she said. "I thought that there were
societies who dealt with all that sort of thing, and behind, the--the
workhouse."

"So there are, Lady Sybil," he answered, "but you must remember that
societies are no use unless people will subscribe to them, and that
there are a great many people who would sooner starve than enter the
workhouse."

"But surely," she exclaimed, "there is no difficulty about getting
money--if people only understand."

He watched her for a moment in silence--suddenly appreciating the
refinement, the costly elegance which seemed in itself to be a part of
the girl, and yet for which surely her toilette was in some way also
responsible. Her white satin dress was cut and fashioned in a style
which he was beginning to appreciate as evidence of skill and
costliness. A string of pearls around her throat gleamed softly in the
firelight. A chain of fine gold studded with opals and diamonds reached
almost to her knees. She wore few rings indeed, but they were such
rings as he had never seen before he had come as a guest to Enton. And
there were thousands like her. A momentary flash of thought carried him
back to the days of the French Revolution. There was a print hanging in
his room of a girl as fair and as proud as this one, surrounded by a
fierce rabble mad with hunger and the pent-up rage of generations,
tearing the jewels from her fingers, tearing even, he thought, the
trimming from her gown.

"You do not answer me, Mr. Brooks," she reminded him.

He recovered himself with a start.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Sybil. Your question set me thinking. We have
tried to make people understand, and many have given most ge