cording to their usual custom.

"What on earth have you been doing, Gwen, to make you so late?" said the
Countess. "We couldn't wait."

"It doesn't matter," was her daughter's answer. "I can gobble to make up
for lost time. Don't bring any arrears, Norbury. I can go on where they
are. What's this--grouse? Not if it's grousey, thank you!...
Oh--well--perhaps I can endure it ... What have I been doing? Why,
taking a drive!... Yes--hock. Only not in a tall glass. I hate tall
glasses. They hit one's nose. Besides, you get less.... I took my old
lady out for a drive--all round by Chorlton, and showed her things. We
saw Farmer Jones's Bull."

"Is that the Bull that killed the man?" This was the Earl. His eyes were
devouring his beautiful daughter, as they were liable to do, even at
lunch, or in church.

"I believe he did. It was a man that beat his wife. So it was a good
job. He's a dear Bull, but his eyes are red. He had a little boy ...
Nonsense, mamma!--why don't you wait till I've done? He had a little boy
to whistle to him and keep his nerves quiet. The potatoes could have
waited, Norbury." The story hopes that its economies of space by
omitting explanations will not be found puzzling.

The Countess's mien indicated despair of her daughter's manners or
sanity, or both. Also that attempts to remedy either would be futile.
Her husband laughed slightly to her across the table, with a
sub-shrug--the word asks pardon--of his shoulders. She answered it by
another, and "Well!" It was as though they had said:--"Really--our
daughter!"

"And where else did you go?" said the Earl, to re-rail the conversation.
"And what else did you see?"

"Mrs. Picture was knocking up," said Gwen. "So we didn't see so much as
we might have done. We left a parcel from Cousin Clo at Goody
Marrable's, and then came home as fast as we could pelt. You know Goody
Marrable, mamma?"

"Oh dear, yes! I went there with Clo, and she gave us her strong-tea."

Gwen nodded several times. "Same experience," said she. "Why is it they
_will_?" The story fancies it referred, a long time since, to this vice
of Goody Marrable's. No doubt Gurth the Swineherd would have made tea on
the same lines, had he had any to make.

The Countess lost interest in the tea question, and evidently had
something to say. Therefore Gwen said:--"Yes, mamma! What?" and got for
answer:--"It's only a suggestion."

"But _what_ is a suggestion?" said the Earl.

"No attention wil