t in the face and said, "You have a charmin'
house."

She had a strongly marked face, her eyes looked straight at you, and
though naturally she was imperious in her manner she was nervous at the
same time. Mrs. Thornbury acted as interpreter, making things smooth all
round by a series of charming commonplace remarks.

"I've taken it upon myself, Mr. Ambrose," she said, "to promise that you
will be so kind as to give Mrs. Flushing the benefit of your experience.
I'm sure no one here knows the country as well as you do. No one takes
such wonderful long walks. No one, I'm sure, has your encyclopaedic
knowledge upon every subject. Mr. Wilfrid Flushing is a collector. He
has discovered really beautiful things already. I had no notion that the
peasants were so artistic--though of course in the past--"

"Not old things--new things," interrupted Mrs. Flushing curtly. "That
is, if he takes my advice."

The Ambroses had not lived for many years in London without knowing
something of a good many people, by name at least, and Helen remembered
hearing of the Flushings. Mr. Flushing was a man who kept an old
furniture shop; he had always said he would not marry because most women
have red cheeks, and would not take a house because most houses have
narrow staircases, and would not eat meat because most animals bleed
when they are killed; and then he had married an eccentric aristocratic
lady, who certainly was not pale, who looked as if she ate meat, who had
forced him to do all the things he most disliked--and this then was the
lady. Helen looked at her with interest. They had moved out into the
garden, where the tea was laid under a tree, and Mrs. Flushing was
helping herself to cherry jam. She had a peculiar jerking movement of
the body when she spoke, which caused the canary-coloured plume on
her hat to jerk too. Her small but finely-cut and vigorous features,
together with the deep red of lips and cheeks, pointed to many
generations of well-trained and well-nourished ancestors behind her.

"Nothin' that's more than twenty years old interests me," she continued.
"Mouldy old pictures, dirty old books, they stick 'em in museums when
they're only fit for burnin'."

"I quite agree," Helen laughed. "But my husband spends his life in
digging up manuscripts which nobody wants." She was amused by Ridley's
expression of startled disapproval.

"There's a clever man in London called John who paints ever so much
better than the old ma