olliot
disliked loud noises. As he ran down the wide shallow staircase into
the hall he saw that Mary was standing in the very centre of it, while
her father slowly revolved round her in appreciative criticism, quoting
the while:--

"The ladies of St James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays for ever,
Their red it never dies;
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her colour comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,--
It warms to a rose--"

This was strictly true, for Mary flushed and paled under her father's
gaze, standing there tall and slender in russet gown and white bodice,
a milking stool under her arm. She wore "buckled shoon" and a white
sunbonnet, and was as fair a maid as a man could see between
Christmases.

She was surprised that her father should express his approval thus
graciously, but she was not uplifted. It was Mr Ffolliot's way. He
had been detestable all day, and now he was going to be charming. His
compliments counted for little with Mary. Yesterday he had told her
she moved like a Flanders mare, and hurt her feelings very much. Her
dress was made in the house and cost about half the price of her shoes
and stockings, but Mary was not greatly concerned about her dress. She
wanted to go to the dance, to dance all night and see other people.

Mrs Ffolliot, looking tired and pale, was sitting with Ger on an oak
settle by the hearth. Ger had been allowed to stay up till dinner time
to see his family dressed. The twins were sitting on the floor in
front of the fire. Reggie paused on the staircase four steps up, and
behind him came Grantly in smock frock (borrowed from the oldest
labourer in Redmarley) and neat gaiters as the typical Georgian
"farmer's boy" to match Mary's milk-maid.

"Aren't you coming, Aunt Marjory?" Reggie asked. "I thought you were
to appear as one of the Ladies of St James's as a foil for Mary."

Mrs Ffolliot shook her head. "I did think of it, but I've got a bad
headache. Mary doesn't really need me as a chaperon, it's only a boy
and girl dance; besides, you and Grantly can look after her."

Mr Ffolliot went and sat down on the settle beside his wife. "You're
much better at home," he said tenderly, "you'd only get tired out
sitting up so late."

Grantly and Mary exchanged glances. They knew well enough that Mrs
Ffolliot had decided at the last moment that she had better stay at
home to look after the twins, who were certain, if left t