“Well, it’s a damn funny thing,” she said. “Here’s our Dago God Almighty splitting himself to set up a bright and beautiful English family upon its respectable legs. What a lark! I suppose it’s out of gratitude to the land that gives him hospitality. He picks up a chap without a backbone and turns him into a good landlord. Then, when he’s made (I suppose you have made) perfectly sure of his morals, he hands him over to a bright and beautiful English girl ‘of good family and antecedents’ (that’s the phrase, ain’t it?), and she’s to run the dummy along till it turns into a representative Cabinet Minister--not brilliant, but a good household article. That’s the ticket, isn’t it?” Grimshaw nodded his head slowly. “And so the good old bachelor makes a little family for himself--a little harem that doesn’t go farther than the tea-table--with what he can get of Katya Lascarides for Sultana No. 1 and Ellida Langham and child for No. 2. No. 2’s more platonic, but it’s all the same little dilly-dally, Oriental, father-benefactor game; and No. 3’s Pauline--little pretty Pauline. Oh, my eye!” She regarded the gates of the Park flying towards them. “What is it the Orientals allowed? Four wives and forty of the other sort? Well, I suppose you’ve plenty of lesser favourites. Why not take me on, too?” “Oh, you!” Grimshaw said good-humouredly--“you’d always be upsetting the apple-cart. You’d have to be bow-stringed.” “I believe a sort of Sultan father-confessor would be good for me,” she said, as she gathered her skirts together. The car had stopped near the dingy yellow Park wall, whose high gates showed the bourgeoning avenue and the broad, sandy road. “Well, this has been what you might call a _conversation galante_ so far.” VI THEY passed the little weather-beaten and discoloured lodge, waited for half a dozen deer that with delicate and nonchalant footsteps passed from the light of the broad road into the shade of the avenue; then they followed them into the aisle between the columnar trunks, the vista stretching to an infinite distance. The deep silence of the place seemed to render them both speechless. She walked, holding her long skirts held high. Suddenly Grimshaw said: “Here’s the fifth tree.” She answered: “I don’t want to hear what’s happened to him.” “Ah, but you’ve got to.” She averted her face. “I know,” she said. “You’ve heard?” Her voice was rather muffled when she said: “No. I prophesied it. He’s had a panic. Perhaps he’s cut his throat. I don’t want to know. It serves him right.” “He is mad,” Grimshaw said slowly. She stood quite still with her back to him. Her broad shoulders heaved. “All right, it’s my fault,” she said. “You needn’t rub it in. Go away.” “I’m not saying it’s your fault,” he said. “The point is whether he’s curable or not. You might possibly help us.” She stood quite still. “Why should I want to help you?” she said.