whether I ought to say even that. I shouldn't, only to
you. Because I know I can rely on your discretion...."

"Rather. Only you must admit that when she appeared this morning--and
last night--she was looking ..."

"Looking what?"

"Well ... rather too statuesque for jollity."

"Perhaps the heat. I know she complains of the heat; it gives her a
headache."

"Come, Miss Dickenson, that's not fair. You know it was what _you_ said
began it."

"Began what?"

"Madam, what I am saying arises naturally from ..."

"There!--do stop being Parliamentary and be reasonable. What you mean
is--have those two fallen head over ears in love, or haven't they?"
Discussions of this subject of Love are greatly lubricated by
exaggeration of style. It is almost as good as a foreign tongue. She
continued more seriously:--"Tell me a little more of what Mr. Torrens
said."

"When I saw him this morning?" Mr. Pellew looked thoughtfully at what
was left of his cigar, as if it would remind him if he looked long
enough, and then threw it abruptly away as though he gave it up as a bad
job. "No," he said, falling back on his own memory. "It wasn't what he
said. It was the way of saying it. Manner is incommunicable. And he said
so little about her. He talked a good deal about Philippa in a chaffy
sort of way--said she was exactly his idea of a Countess--why had one
such firm convictions about Countesses and Duchesses and Baronets and so
on? It led to great injustice, causing us to condemn nine samples out of
ten as Pretenders, not real Countesses or Duchesses or Baronets at all.
He was convinced his own dear dad was a tin Baronet; or, at best,
Britannia-metal. Alfred Tennyson had spoken of two sorts--little
lily-handed ones and great broad-shouldered brawny Englishmen. Neither
would eat the sugar nor go to sleep in an armchair with the _Times_ over
his head. _His_ father did both. I admitted the force of his criticism,
but could not follow his distinction between Countesses and Duchesses.
Duchesses were squarer than Countesses, just as Dukes were squarer than
Earls."

"I think they are," said Miss Dickenson. She shut her eyes a moment for
reflection, and then decided:--"Oh yes--certainly squarer--not a doubt
of it!" Mr. Pellew formed an image in his mind, of this lady fifteen
years ago, with its eyes shut. He did not the least know why he did so.

"Torrens goes on like that," he continued. "Makes you laugh sometimes!
But what I was going t