aw one, and she liked to give it
a welcome; so smiling and wrinkling her forehead, she mused over the
letter. Her thoughts wandered. The last scandal--Lady Rose Bethany's
divorce--had upset the whole county, and even now one had to be careful
what one said. Horace would not like the idea of another divorce-suit,
and that so close to Worsted Skeynes. When Helen left on Thursday he had
said:

"I'm not sorry she's gone. Her position is a queer one. People don't
like it. The Maidens were quite----"

And Mrs. Pendyce remembered with a glow at her heart how she had broken
in:

"Ellen Maiden is too bourgeoise for anything!"

Nor had Mr. Pendyce's look of displeasure effaced the comfort of that
word.

Poor Horace! The children took after him, except George, who took
after her brother Hubert. The dear boy had gone back to his club on
Friday--the day after Helen and the others went. She wished he could
have stayed. She wished----The wrinkle deepened on her brow. Too much
London was bad for him! Too much----Her fancy flew to the London which
she saw now only for three weeks in June and July, for the sake of the
girls, just when her garden was at its best, and when really things were
such a whirl that she never knew whether she was asleep or awake. It was
not like London at all--not like that London under spring skies, or in
early winter lamplight, where all the passers-by seemed so interesting,
living all sorts of strange and eager lives, with strange and eager
pleasures, running all sorts of risks, hungry sometimes, homeless
even--so fascinating, so unlike--

"Now, my dear, you'll be late!"

Mr. Pendyce, in his Norfolk jacket, which he was on his way to change
for a black coat, passed through the room, followed by the spaniel John.
He turned at the door, and the spaniel John turned too.

"I hope to goodness Barter'll be short this morning. I want to talk to
old Fox about that new chaff-cutter."

Round their mistress the three terriers raised their heads; the aged
Skye gave forth a gentle growl. Mrs. Pendyce leaned over and stroked his
nose.

"Roy, Roy, how can you, dear?"

Mr. Pendyce said:

"The old dog's losing all his teeth; he'll have to be put away."

His wife flushed painfully.

"Oh no, Horace--oh no!"

The Squire coughed.

"We must think of the dog!" he said.

Mrs. Pendyce rose, and crumpling the letter nervously, followed him from
the room.

A narrow path led through the home paddock towards the