Not that Aunt Maria was really crabbed. Irritable perhaps, peculiar certainly, finicky and old-fashioned to a degree, yet with a certain bedrock kindliness of nature which forbade the use of so hard a term as _crabbed_. Since the date of the hair episode Darsie's admiration for Lady Hayes's dignified self-control had been steadily on the increase. She even admitted to her secret self that in time to come--far, far-off time to come,--she would like to become like Aunt Maria in this respect and cast aside her own impetuous, storm-tossed ways. At seventy one _ought_ to be calm and slow to wrath, but at fifteen! Who could expect a poor little flapper of fifteen to be anything but fire and flame! Wet days were the great trial--those drizzling, chilly days which have a disagreeable habit of intruding into our English summers. Darsie, shivering in a washing dress, "occupying herself quietly with her needlework" in the big grim morning-room, was in her most prickly and rebellious of moods. "Hateful to have such weather in summer! My fingers are so cold I can hardly work." "It is certainly very chill." "Aunt Maria, couldn't we have a fire? It would be _something_ cheerful to look at!" "My dear!" Lady Hayes was apparently transfixed with amazement. "A fire! You forget, surely, the month! The month of August. We never begin fires until the first of October." "You'd be much more comfortable if you did." There being no controverting the truth of this statement, Lady Hayes made no reply. But after the lapse of a few minutes she volunteered a suggestion. "There is a grey Shetland shawl folded up under the sofa rug. You had better put it over your shoulders, since you feel so cold." "_I_?" Darsie gave an impatient laugh. "Fancy me wrapped up in a Shetland shawl! I'd sooner freeze." Lady Hayes dropped her eyelids and tightened her lips. Her manner pointed out more eloquently than words the fact that her guest was wanting in respect, but as hostess it was her duty to consider the comfort of her guest, so presently she rang the bell and gave instructions that a cup of hot cocoa should be served at eleven o'clock instead of the usual glass of milk. She herself was never guilty of the enormity of eating between meals, so that the listener knew perfectly well for whose benefit the order was given, but being at once cold, lonely, and cross, her heart was hardened, and she spoke no word. Between that time and the appearance of James with the tray Aunt Maria made three successive attempts to open new topics of conversation, which were each time checkmated by monosyllabic replies. There was a tone of relief in her voice, as of one hailing a much-needed assistance, as she said briskly-- "Now, my dear, here is your cocoa! Drink it while it is hot. It will warm you up." "Thank you, I don't drink cocoa. It makes me sick."