you really said nothing to
her about it?"

"No. She is so headstrong and self-willed. I have been absolutely
afraid to speak. But it must be settled immediately. Theodore is always
so busy. It will be quite a favour to get the dress made at so short a
notice, I daresay."

"Why not speak to Violet this afternoon?"

"While you are here? Yes, I might do that," replied Mrs. Tempest
eagerly.

She felt she could approach the subject more comfortably in Mrs.
Scobel's presence. There would be a kind of protection in a third
person. She rang the bell.

"Has Miss Tempest come home from her ride?"

"Yes, ma'am. She has just come in."

"Send her to me at once then. Ask her not to stop to change her dress."

Mrs. Tempest and Mrs. Scobel were in the drawing-room, sitting at a
gipsy table before an open window; the widow wrapped in a China-crape
shawl, lest even the summer breeze should be too chill for her delicate
frame, the Worcester cups and saucers, and antique silver tea pot and
caddy and kettle set out before her, like a child's toys.

Violet came running in, flushed after her ride, her habit muddy.

"Bogged again!" cried Mrs. Tempest, with ineffable disgust. "That horse
will be the death of you some day."

"I think not, mamma. How do you do, Mrs. Scobel?"

"Violet," said the Vicar's wife gravely, "why do you never come to our
week-day services now?"

"I--I--don't know. I have not felt in the humour for coming to church.
It's no use to come and kneel in a holy place with rebellious thoughts
in my heart. I come on Sundays for decency's sake; but I think it is
better to keep away from the week-day services till I am in a better
temper."

"I don't think that's quite the way to recover your temper, dear."

Violet was silent, and there was a rather awkward pause.

"Will you have a cup of tea, dear?" asked Mrs. Tempest.

"No, thanks, mamma. I think, unless you have something very particular
to say to me, I had better take my muddy habit off your carpet. I feel
rather warm and dusty. I shall be glad to change my dress."

"But I have something very particular to say, Violet. I won't detain
you long. You'd better have a cup of tea."

"Just as you please, mamma."

And forgetful of her clay-bespattered habit, Violet sank into one of
the satin-covered chairs, and made a wreck of an antimacassar worked in
crewels by Mrs. Tempest's own hands.

"I am going to write to Madame Theodore by this evening's post,
Violet,