The Patrician

CHAPTER X

Miltoun’s sudden journey to London had been undertaken in pursuance of a resolve slowly forming from the moment he met Mrs. Noel in the stone flagged passage of Burracombe Farm. If she would have him and since last evening he believed she would – he intended to marry her.

It has been said that except for one lapse his life had been austere, but this is not to assert that he had no capacity for passion. The contrary was the case. That flame which had been so jealously guarded smouldered deep within him – a smothered fire with but little air to feed on. The moment his spirit was touched by the spirit of this woman, it had flared up. She was the incarnation of all that he desired. Her hair, her eyes, her form; the tiny tuck or dimple at the corner of her mouth just where a child places its finger; her way of moving, a sort of unconscious swaying or yielding to the air; the tone in her voice, which seemed to come not so much from happiness of her own as from an innate wish to make others happy; and that natural, if not robust, intelligence, which belongs to the very sympathetic, and is rarely found in women of great ambitions or enthusiasms – all these things had twined themselves round his heart. He not only dreamed of her, and wanted her; he believed in her. She filled his thoughts as one who could never do wrong; as one who, though a wife would remain a mistress, and though a mistress, would always be the companion of his spirit.

It has been said that no one spoke or gossiped about women in Miltoun’s presence, and the tale of her divorce was present to his mind simply in the form of a conviction that she was an injured woman. After his interview with the vicar, he had only once again alluded to it, and that in answer to the speech of a lady staying at the Court: “Oh! yes, I remember her case perfectly. She was the poor woman who – ” “Did not, I am certain, Lady Bonington.” The tone of his voice had made someone laugh uneasily; the subject was changed.

All divorce was against his convictions, but in a blurred way he admitted that there were cases where release was unavoidable. He was not a man to ask for confidences, or expect them to be given him. He himself had never confided his spiritual struggles to any living creature; and the unspiritual struggle had little interest for Miltoun. He was ready at any moment to stake his life on the perfection of the idol he had set up within his soul, as simply and straightforwardly as he would have placed his body in front of her to shield her from harm.

The same fanaticism, which looked on his passion as a flower by itself, entirely apart from its suitability to the social garden, was also the driving force which sent him up to London to declare his intention to his father before he spoke to Mrs. Noel. The thing should be done simply, and in right order. For he had the kind of moral courage found in those who live retired within the shell of their own aspirations. Yet it was not perhaps so much active moral courage as indifference to what others thought or did, coming from his inbred resistance to the appreciation of what they felt.

That peculiar smile of the old Tudor Cardinal – which had in it invincible self-reliance, and a sort of spiritual sneer – played over his face when he speculated on his father’s reception of the coming news; and very soon he ceased to think of it at all, burying himself in the work he had brought with him for the journey. For he had in high degree the faculty, so essential to public life, of switching off his whole attention from one subject to another.

On arriving at Paddington he drove straight to Valleys House.

This large dwelling with its pillared portico, seemed to wear an air of faint surprise that, at the height of the season, it was not more inhabited. Three servants relieved Miltoun of his little luggage; and having washed, and learned that his father would be dining in, he went for a walk, taking his way towards his rooms in the Temple. His long figure, somewhat carelessly garbed, attracted the usual attention, of which he was as usual unaware. Strolling along, he meditated deeply on a London, an England, different from this flatulent hurly-burly, this ‘omniuin gatherum’, this great discordant symphony of sharps and flats. A London, an England, kempt and self-respecting; swept and garnished of slums, and plutocrats, advertisement, and jerry-building, of sensationalism, vulgarity, vice, and unemployment. An England where each man should know his place, and never change it, but serve in it loyally in his own caste. Where every man, from nobleman to labourer, should be an oligarch by faith, and a gentleman by practice. An England so steel-bright and efficient that the very sight should suffice to impose peace. An England whose soul should be stoical and fine with the stoicism and fineness of each soul amongst her many million souls; where the town should have its creed and the country its creed, and there should be contentment and no complaining in her streets.

And as he walked down the Strand, a little ragged boy cheeped out between his legs:

“Bloodee discoveree in a Bank – Grite sensytion! Pi-er!”

Miltoun paid no heed to that saying; yet, with it, the wind that blows where man lives, the careless, wonderful, unordered wind, had dispersed his austere and formal vision. Great was that wind – the myriad aspiration of men and women, the praying of the uncounted multitude to the goddess of Sensation – of Chance, and Change. A flowing from heart to heart, from lip to lip, as in Spring the wistful air wanders through a wood, imparting to every bush and tree the secrets of fresh life, the passionate resolve to grow, and become – no matter what! A sighing, as eternal as the old murmuring of the sea, as little to be hushed, as prone to swell into sudden roaring!

Miltoun held on through the traffic, not looking overmuch at the present forms of the thousands he passed, but seeing with the eyes of faith the forms he desired to see. Near St. Paul’s he stopped in front of an old book-shop. His grave, pallid, not unhandsome face, was well-known to William Rimall, its small proprietor, who at once brought out his latest acquisition – a Mores ‘Utopia.’ That particular edition (he assured Miltoun) was quite unprocurable – he had never sold but one other copy, which had been literally, crumbling away. This copy was in even better condition. It could hardly last another twenty years – a genuine book, a bargain. There wasn’t so much movement in More as there had been a little time back.

Miltoun opened the tome, and a small book-louse who had been sleeping on the word ‘Tranibore,’ began to make its way slowly towards the very centre of the volume.

“I see it’s genuine,” said Miltoun.

“It’s not to read, my lord,” the little man warned him: “Hardly safe to turn the pages. As I was saying – I’ve not had a better piece this year. I haven’t really!”

“Shrewd old dreamer,” muttered Miltoun; “the Socialists haven’t got beyond him, even now.”

The little man’s eyes blinked, as though apologizing for the views of Thomas More.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose he was one of them. I forget if your lordship’s very strong on politics?”

Miltoun smiled.

“I want to see an England, Rimall, something like the England of Mores dream. But my machinery will be different. I shall begin at the top.”

The little man nodded.

“Quite so, quite so,” he said; “we shall come to that, I dare say.”

“We must, Rimall.” And Miltoun turned the page.

The little man’s face quivered.

“I don’t think,” he said, “that book’s quite strong enough for you, my lord, with your taste for reading. Now I’ve a most curious old volume here – on Chinese temples. It’s rare – but not too old. You can peruse it thoroughly. It’s what I call a book to browse on just suit your palate. Funny principle they built those things on,” he added, opening the volume at an engraving, “in layers. We don’t build like that in England.”

Miltoun looked up sharply; the little man’s face wore no signs of understanding.

“Unfortunately we don’t, Rimall,” he said; “we ought to, and we shall. I’ll take this book.”

Placing his finger on the print of the pagoda, he added: “A good symbol.”

The little bookseller’s eye strayed down the temple to the secret price mark.

“Exactly, my lord,” he said; “I thought it’d be your fancy. The price to you will be twenty-seven and six.”

Miltoun, pocketing the bargain, walked out. He made his way into the Temple, left the book at his Chambers, and passed on down to the bank of Mother Thames. The Sun was loving her passionately that afternoon; he had kissed her into warmth and light and colour. And all the buildings along her banks, as far as the towers at Westminster, seemed to be smiling. It was a great sight for the eyes of a lover. And another vision came haunting Miltoun, of a soft-eyed woman with a low voice, bending amongst her flowers. Nothing would be complete without her; no work bear fruit; no scheme could have full meaning.

Lord Valleys greeted his son at dinner with good fellowship and a faint surprise.

“Day off, my dear fellow? Or have you come up to hear Brabrook pitch into us? He’s rather late this time – we’ve got rid of that balloon business no trouble after all.”

And he eyed Miltoun with that clear grey stare of his, so cool, level, and curious. Now, what sort of bird is this? it seemed saying. Certainly not the partridge I should have expected from its breeding!

Miltoun’s answer: “I came up to tell you some thing, sir,” riveted his father’s stare for a second longer than was quite urbane.

It would not be true to say that Lord Valleys was afraid of his son. Fear was not one of his emotions, but he certainly regarded him with a respectful curiosity that bordered on uneasiness. The oligarchic temper of Miltoun’s mind and political convictions almost shocked one who knew both by temperament and experience how to wait in front. This instruction he had frequently had occasion to give his jockeys when he believed his horses could best get home first in that way. And it was an instruction he now longed to give his son. He himself had ‘waited in front’ for over fifty years, and he knew it to be the finest way of insuring that he would never be compelled to alter this desirable policy – for something in Lord Valleys’ character made him fear that, in real emergency, he would exert himself to the point of the gravest discomfort sooner than be left to wait behind. A fellow like young Harbinger, of course, he understood – versatile, ‘full of beans,’ as he expressed it to himself in his more confidential moments, who had imbibed the new wine (very intoxicating it was) of desire for social reform. He would have to be given his head a little – but there would be no difficulty with him, he would never ‘run out’ – light handy build of horse that only required steadying at the corners. He would want to hear himself talk, and be let feel that he was doing something. All very well, and quite intelligible. But with Miltoun (and Lord Valleys felt this to be no, mere parental fancy) it was a very different business. His son had a way of forcing things to their conclusions which was dangerous, and reminded him of his mother-in-law. He was a baby in public affairs, of course, as yet; but as soon as he once got going, the intensity of his convictions, together with his position, and real gift – not of the gab, like Harbinger’s – but of restrained, biting oratory, was sure to bring him to the front with a bound in the present state of parties. And what were those convictions? Lord Valleys had tried to understand them, but up to the present he had failed. And this did not surprise him exactly, since, as he often said, political convictions were not, as they appeared on the surface, the outcome of reason, but merely symptoms of temperament. And he could not comprehend, because he could not sympathize with, any attitude towards public affairs that was not essentially level, attached to the plain, common-sense factors of the case as they appeared to himself. Not that he could fairly be called a temporizer, for deep down in him there was undoubtedly a vein of obstinate, fundamental loyalty to the traditions of a caste which prized high spirit beyond all things. Still he did feel that Miltoun was altogether too much the ‘pukka’ aristocrat – no better than a Socialist, with his confounded way of seeing things all cut and dried; his ideas of forcing reforms down people’s throats and holding them there with the iron hand! With his way too of acting on his principles! Why! He even admitted that he acted on his principles! This thought always struck a very discordant note in Lord Valleys’ breast. It was almost indecent; worse-ridiculous! The fact was, the dear fellow had unfortunately a deeper habit of thought than was wanted in politics – dangerous – very! Experience might do something for him! And out of his own long experience the Earl of Valleys tried hard to recollect any politician whom the practice of politics had left where he was when he started. He could not think of one. But this gave him little comfort; and, above a piece of late asparagus his steady eyes sought his son’s. What had he come up to tell him?

The phrase had been ominous; he could not recollect Miltoun’s ever having told him anything. For though a really kind and indulgent father, he had – like so many men occupied with public and other lives – a little acquired towards his offspring the look and manner: Is this mine? Of his four children, Barbara alone he claimed with conviction. He admired her; and, being a man who savoured life, he was unable to love much except where he admired. But, the last person in the world to hustle any man or force a confidence, he waited to hear his son’s news, betraying no uneasiness.

Miltoun seemed in no hurry. He described Courtier’s adventure, which tickled Lord Valleys a good deal.

“Ordeal by red pepper! Shouldn’t have thought them equal to that,” he said. “So you’ve got him at Monkland now. Harbinger still with you?”

“Yes. I don’t think Harbinger has much stamina.

“Politically?”

Miltoun nodded.

“I rather resent his being on our side – I don’t think he does us any good. You’ve seen that cartoon, I suppose; it cuts pretty deep. I couldn’t recognize you amongst the old women, sir.”

Lord Valleys smiled impersonally.

“Very clever thing. By the way; I shall win the Eclipse, I think.”

And thus, spasmodically, the conversation ran till the last servant had left the room.

Then Miltoun, without preparation, looked straight at his father and said:

“I want to marry Mrs. Noel, sir.”

Lord Valleys received the shot with exactly the same expression as that with which he was accustomed to watch his horses beaten. Then he raised his wineglass to his lips; and set it down again untouched. This was the only sign he gave of interest or discomfiture.

“Isn’t this rather sudden?”

Miltoun answered: “I’ve wanted to from the moment I first saw her.”

Lord Valleys, almost as good a judge of a man and a situation as of a horse or a pointer dog, leaned back in his chair, and said with faint sarcasm:

“My dear fellow, it’s good of you to have told me this; though, to be quite frank, it’s a piece of news I would rather not have heard.”

A dusky flush burned slowly up in Miltoun’s cheeks. He had underrated his father; the man had coolness and courage in a crisis.

“What is your objection, sir?” And suddenly he noticed that a wafer in Lord Valleys’ hand was quivering. This brought into his eyes no look of compunction, but such a smouldering gaze as the old Tudor Churchman might have bent on an adversary who showed a sign of weakness. Lord Valleys, too, noticed the quivering of that wafer, and ate it.

“We are men of the world,” he said.

Miltoun answered: “I am not.”

Showing his first real symptom of impatience Lord Valleys rapped out:

“So be it! I am.”

“Yes?”, said Miltoun.

“Eustace!”

Nursing one knee, Miltoun faced that appeal without the faintest movement. His eyes continued to burn into his father’s face. A tremor passed over Lord Valleys’ heart. What intensity of feeling there was in the fellow, that he could look like this at the first breath of opposition!

He reached out and took up the cigar-box; held it absently towards his son, and drew it quickly back.

“I forgot,” he said; “you don’t.”

And lighting a cigar, he smoked gravely, looking straight before him, a furrow between his brows. He spoke at last:

“She looks like a lady. I know nothing else about her.”

The smile deepened round Miltoun’s mouth.

“Why should you want to know anything else?”

Lord Valleys shrugged. His philosophy had hardened.

“I understand for one thing,” he said coldly; “that there is a matter of a divorce. I thought you took the Church’s view on that subject.”

“She has not done wrong.”

“You know her story, then?”

“No.”

Lord Valleys raised his brows, in irony and a sort of admiration.

“Chivalry the better part of discretion?”

Miltoun answered:

“You don’t, I think, understand the kind of feeling I have for Mrs. Noel. It does not come into your scheme of things. It is the only feeling, however, with which I should care to marry, and I am not likely to feel it for anyone again.”

Lord Valleys felt once more that uncanny sense of insecurity. Was this true? And suddenly he felt Yes, it is true! The face before him was the face of one who would burn in his own fire sooner than depart from his standards. And a sudden sense of the utter seriousness of this dilemma dumbed him.

“I can say no more at the moment,” he muttered and got up from the table.

CHAPTER XI

Lady Casterley was that inconvenient thing – an early riser. No woman in the kingdom was a better judge of a dew carpet. Nature had in her time displayed before her thousands of those pretty fabrics, where all the stars of the past night, dropped to the dark earth, were waiting to glide up to heaven again on the rays of the sun. At Ravensham she walked regularly in her gardens between half-past seven and eight, and when she paid a visit, was careful to subordinate whatever might be the local custom to this habit.

When therefore her maid Randle came to Barbara’s maid at seven o’clock, and said: “My old lady wants Lady Babs to get up,” there was no particular pain in the breast of Barbara’s maid, who was doing up her corsets. She merely answered “I’ll see to it. Lady Babs won’t be too pleased!” And ten minutes later she entered that white-walled room which smelled of pinks-a temple of drowsy sweetness, where the summer light was vaguely stealing through flowered chintz curtains.

Barbara was sleeping with her cheek on her hand, and her tawny hair, gathered back, streaming over the pillow. Her lips were parted; and the maid thought: “I’d like to have hair and a mouth like that!” She could not help smiling to herself with pleasure; Lady Babs looked so pretty – prettier asleep even than awake! And at sight of that beautiful creature, sleeping and smiling in her sleep, the earthy, hothouse fumes steeping the mind of one perpetually serving in an atmosphere unsuited to her natural growth, dispersed. Beauty, with its queer touching power of freeing the spirit from all barriers and thoughts of self, sweetened the maid’s eyes, and kept her standing, holding her breath. For Barbara asleep was a symbol of that Golden Age in which she so desperately believed. She opened her eyes, and seeing the maid, said:

“Is it eight o’clock, Stacey?”

“No, but Lady Casterley wants you to walk with her.”

“Oh! bother! I was having such a dream!”

“Yes; you were smiling.”

“I was dreaming that I could fly.”

“Fancy!”

“I could see everything spread out below me, as close as I see you; I was hovering like a buzzard hawk. I felt that I could come down exactly where I wanted. It was fascinating. I had perfect power, Stacey.”

And throwing her neck back, she closed her eyes again. The sunlight streamed in on her between the half-drawn curtains.

The queerest impulse to put out a hand and stroke that full white throat shot through the maid’s mind.

“These flying machines are stupid,” murmured Barbara; “the pleasure’s in one’s body – wings!”

“I can see Lady Casterley in the garden.”

Barbara sprang out of bed. Close by the statue of Diana Lady Casterley was standing, gazing down at some flowers, a tiny, grey figure. Barbara sighed. With her, in her dream, had been another buzzard hawk, and she was filled with a sort of surprise, and queer pleasure that ran down her in little shivers while she bathed and dressed.

In her haste she took no hat; and still busy with the fastening of her linen frock, hurried down the stairs and Georgian corridor, towards the garden. At the end of it she almost ran into the arms of Courtier.

Awakening early this morning, he had begun first thinking of Audrey Noel, threatened by scandal; then of his yesterday’s companion, that glorious young creature, whose image had so gripped and taken possession of him. In the pleasure of this memory he had steeped himself. She was youth itself! That perfect thing, a young girl without callowness.

And his words, when she nearly ran into him, were: “The Winged Victory!”

Barbara’s answer was equally symbolic: “A buzzard hawk! Do you know, I dreamed we were flying, Mr. Courtier.”

Courtier gravely answered

“If the gods give me that dream – ”

From the garden door Barbara turned her head, smiled, and passed through.

Lady Casterley, in the company of little Ann, who had perceived that it was novel to be in the garden at this hour, had been scrutinizing some newly founded colonies of a flower with which she was not familiar. On seeing her granddaughter approach, she said at once:

“What is this thing?”

“Nemesia.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s rather the fashion, Granny.”

“Nemesia?” repeated Lady Casterley. “What has Nemesis to do with flowers? I have no patience with gardeners, and these idiotic names. Where is your hat? I like that duck’s egg colour in your frock. There’s a button undone.” And reaching up her little spidery hand, wonderfully steady considering its age, she buttoned the top button but one of Barbara’s bodice.

“You look very blooming, my dear,” she said. “How far is it to this woman’s cottage? We’ll go there now.”

“She wouldn’t be up.”

Lady Casterley’s eyes gleamed maliciously.

“You tell me she’s so nice,” she said. “No nice unencumbered woman lies in bed after half-past seven. Which is the very shortest way? No, Ann, we can’t take you.”

Little Ann, after regarding her great-grandmother rather too intently, replied:

“Well, I can’t come, you see, because I’ve got to go.”

“Very well,” said Lady Casterley, “then trot along.”

Little Ann, tightening her lips, walked to the next colony of Nemesia, and bent over the colonists with concentration, showing clearly that she had found something more interesting than had yet been encountered.

“Ha!” said Lady Casterley, and led on at her brisk pace towards the avenue.

All the way down the drive she discoursed on woodcraft, glancing sharply at the trees. Forestry – she said-like building, and all other pursuits which required, faith and patient industry, was a lost art in this second-hand age. She had made Barbara’s grandfather practise it, so that at Catton (her country place) and even at Ravensham, the trees were worth looking at. Here, at Monkland, they were monstrously neglected. To have the finest Italian cypress in the country, for example, and not take more care of it, was a downright scandal!

Barbara listened, smiling lazily. Granny was so amusing in her energy and precision, and her turns of speech, so deliberately homespun, as if she – than whom none could better use a stiff and polished phrase, or the refinements of the French language – were determined to take what liberties she liked. To the girl, haunted still by the feeling that she could fly, almost drunk on the sweetness of the air that summer morning, it seemed funny that anyone should be like that. Then for a second she saw her grandmother’s face in repose, off guard, grim with anxious purpose, as if questioning its hold on life; and in one of those flashes of intuition which come to women – even when young and conquering like Barbara – she felt suddenly sorry, as though she had caught sight of the pale spectre never yet seen by her. “Poor old dear,” she thought; “what a pity to be old!”

But they had entered the footpath crossing three long meadows which climbed up towards Mrs. Noel’s. It was so golden-sweet here amongst the million tiny saffron cups frosted with lingering dewshine; there was such flying glory in the limes and ash-trees; so delicate a scent from the late whins and may-flower; and, on every tree a greybird calling to be sorry was not possible!

In the far corner of the first field a chestnut mare was standing, with ears pricked at some distant sound whose charm she alone perceived. On viewing the intruders, she laid those ears back, and a little vicious star gleamed out at the corner of her eye. They passed her and entered the second field. Half way across, Barbara said quietly:

“Granny, that’s a bull!”

It was indeed an enormous bull, who had been standing behind a clump of bushes. He was moving slowly towards them, still distant about two hundred yards; a great red beast, with the huge development of neck and front which makes the bull, of all living creatures, the symbol of brute force.

Lady Casterley envisaged him severely.

“I dislike bulls,” she said; “I think I must walk backward.”

“You can’t; it’s too uphill.”

“I am not going to turn back,” said Lady Casterley. “The bull ought not to be here. Whose fault is it? I shall speak to someone. Stand still and look at him. We must prevent his coming nearer.”

They stood still and looked at the bull, who continued to approach.

“It doesn’t stop him,” said Lady Casterley. “We must take no notice. Give me your arm, my dear; my legs feel rather funny.”

Barbara put her arm round the little figure. They walked on.

“I have not been used to bulls lately,” said Lady Casterley. The bull came nearer.

“Granny,” said Barbara, “you must go quietly on to the stile. When you’re over I’ll come too.”

“Certainly not,” said Lady Casterley, “we will go together. Take no notice of him; I have great faith in that.”

“Granny darling, you must do as I say, please; I remember this bull, he is one of ours.”

At those rather ominous words Lady Casterley gave her a sharp glance.

“I shall not go,” she said. “My legs feel quite strong now. We can run, if necessary.”

“So can the bull,” said Barbara.

“I’m not going to leave you,” muttered Lady Casterley. “If he turns vicious I shall talk to him. He won’t touch me. You can run faster than I; so that’s settled.”

“Don’t be absurd, dear,” answered Barbara; “I am not afraid of bulls.”

Lady Casterley flashed a look at her which had a gleam of amusement.

“I can feel you,” she said; “you’re just as trembly as I am.”

The bull was now distant some eighty yards, and they were still quite a hundred from the stile.

“Granny,” said Barbara, “if you don’t go on as I tell you, I shall just leave you, and go and meet him! You mustn’t be obstinate!”

Lady Casterley’s answer was to grip her granddaughter round the waist; the nervous force of that thin arm was surprising.

“You will do nothing of the sort,” she said. “I refuse to have anything more to do with this bull; I shall simply pay no attention.”

The bull now began very slowly ambling towards them.

“Take no notice,” said Lady Casterley, who was walking faster than she had ever walked before.

“The ground is level now,” said Barbara; “can you run?”

“I think so,” gasped Lady Casterley; and suddenly she found herself half-lifted from the ground, and, as it were, flying towards the stile. She heard a noise behind; then Barbara’s voice:

“We must stop. He’s on us. Get behind me.”

She felt herself caught and pinioned by two arms that seemed set on the wrong way. Instinct, and a general softness told her that she was back to back with her granddaughter.

“Let me go!” she gasped; “let me go!”

And suddenly she felt herself being propelled by that softness forward towards the stile.

“Shoo!” she said; “shoo!”

“Granny,” Barbara’s voice came, calm and breathless, “don’t! You only excite him! Are we near the stile?”

“Ten yards,” panted Lady Casterley.

“Look out, then!” There was a sort of warm flurry round her, a rush, a heave, a scramble; she was beyond the stile. The bull and Barbara, a yard or two apart, were just the other side. Lady Casterley raised her handkerchief and fluttered it. The bull looked up; Barbara, all legs and arms, came slipping down beside her.

Without wasting a moment Lady Casterley leaned forward and addressed the bull:

“You awful brute!” she said; “I will have you well flogged.”

Gently pawing the ground, the bull snuffled.

“Are you any the worse, child?”

“Not a scrap,” said Barbara’s serene, still breathless voice.

Lady Casterley put up her hands, and took the girl’s face between them.

“What legs you have!” she said. “Give me a kiss!”

Having received a hot, rather quivering kiss, she walked on, holding somewhat firmly to Barbara’s arm.

“As for that bull,” she murmured, “the brute – to attack women!”

Barbara looked down at her.

“Granny,” she said, “are you sure you’re not shaken?”

Lady Casterley, whose lips were quivering, pressed them together very hard.

“Not a b-b-bit.”

“Don’t you think,” said Barbara, “that we had better go back, at once – the other way?”

“Certainly not. There are no more bulls, I suppose, between us and this woman?”

“But are you fit to see her?”

Lady Casterley passed her handkerchief over her lips, to remove their quivering.

“Perfectly,” she answered.

“Then, dear,” said Barbara, “stand still a minute, while I dust you behind.”

This having been accomplished, they proceeded in the direction of Mrs. Noel’s cottage.

At sight of it, Lady Casterley said:

“I shall put my foot down. It’s out of the question for a man of Miltoun’s prospects. I look forward to seeing him Prime Minister some day.” Hearing Barbara’s voice murmuring above her, she paused: “What’s that you say?”