uestions, with readiness, even with
eagerness.

Was it right to be so very strict with children?--babies under three?
Wasn't it ridiculous to expect them not to be naughty or greedy? Why,
every child wanted as much sweetstuff as it could tuck in! Quite right
too--doctors said it was good for them. But Miss Farmer----

"Who is Miss Farmer?" inquired Mrs. Fairmile. She was riding close
beside him--an embodied friendliness--a soft and womanly Chloe, very
different from the old.

"She's the nurse; my mother found her. She's a lady--by way of--she
doesn't do any rough work--and I dare say she's the newest thing out.
But she's too tight a hand for my taste. I say!--what do you think of
this! She wouldn't let Beattie come down to the drawing-room yesterday,
because she cried for a sweet! Wasn't that _devilish_!" He brought his
hand down fiercely on his thigh.

"A Gorgon!" said Mrs. Fairmile, raising her eyebrows. "Any other
qualifications? French? German?"

"Not a word. Not she! Her people live somewhere near here, I believe."
Roger looked vaguely round him. "Her father managed a brick-field on
this estate--some parson or other recommended her to mother."

"And you don't like her?"

"Well, no--I don't! She's not the kind of woman _I_ want." He blurted it
out, adding hurriedly, "But my wife thinks a lot of her."

Chloe dismissed the topic of the nurse, but still let him run on about
the child. Amazing!--this development of paternity in the careless,
handsome youth of three years before. She was amused and bored by it.
But her permission of it had thawed him--that she saw.

Presently, from the child she led him on to common acquaintance--old
friends--and talk flowed fast. She made him laugh; and the furrows in
the young brow disappeared. Now as always they understood each other at
a word; there was between them the freemasonry of persons sprung from
the same world and the same tradition; his daily talk with Daphne had
never this easy, slipping pleasure. Meanwhile the horses sauntered on,
unconsciously held back; and the magical autumn wood, its lights and
lines and odours, played upon their senses.

At last Roger with a start perceived a gate in front. He looked at his
watch, and she saw him redden.

"We shall be late for the meet."

His eyes avoided hers. He gathered up the reins, evidently conscious.

Smiling, she let him open the gate for her, and then as they passed into
the road, shadowed with over-arching t