per's little daughter.

"Hallo, Susie!"

There was no answer, but the look on Susie's small pale face was so
humble and adoring that Lord Valleys, not a very observant man,
noticed it with a sort of satisfaction. "Yes," he thought, somewhat
irrelevantly, "the country is sound at heart!"

CHAPTER II

At Ravensham House on the borders of Richmond Park, suburban seat of the
Casterley family, ever since it became usual to have a residence within
easy driving distance of Westminster--in a large conservatory adjoining
the hall, Lady Casterley stood in front of some Japanese lilies. She was
a slender, short old woman, with an ivory-coloured face, a thin nose,
and keen eyes half-veiled by delicate wrinkled lids. Very still, in
her grey dress, and with grey hair, she gave the impression of a little
figure carved out of fine, worn steel. Her firm, spidery hand held a
letter written in free somewhat sprawling style:

MONKLAND COURT,

"DEVON.

"MY DEAR, MOTHER,

"Geoffrey is motoring up to-morrow. He'll look in on you on the way if
he can. This new war scare has taken him up. I shan't be in Town myself
till Miltoun's election is over. The fact is, I daren't leave him down
here alone. He sees his 'Anonyma' every day. That Mr. Courtier, who
wrote the book against War--rather cool for a man who's been a soldier
of fortune, don't you think?--is staying at the inn, working for the
Radical. He knows her, too--and, one can only hope, for Miltoun's sake,
too well--an attractive person, with red moustaches, rather nice and
mad. Bertie has just come down; I must get him to have a talk with
Miltoun, and see if he cant find out how the land lies. One can
trust Bertie--he's really very astute. I must say, that she's quite a
sweet-looking woman; but absolutely nothing's known of her here except
that she divorced her husband. How does one find out about people?
Miltoun's being so extraordinarily strait-laced makes it all the more
awkward. The earnestness of this rising generation is most remarkable. I
don't remember taking such a serious view of life in my youth."

Lady Casterley lowered the coronetted sheet of paper. The ghost of a
grimace haunted her face--she had not forgotten her daughter's youth.
Raising the letter again, she read on:

"I'm sure Geoffrey and I feel years younger than either Miltoun or
Agatha, though we did produce them. One doesn't feel it with Bertie or
Babs, luckily. The war scare is having an excellen