‘Poor Mrs. Miller threw no stones. She told me plain and sad facts about these young Arbuthnot people. The husband for ever philandering in the train of certain idle ladies belonging to our island society, the wife watching up for him till all hours of the morning, people, very naturally, speculating right and left----’ But Cassandra Tighe stopped short. Like an arrow from a bow Marjorie’s slip of a figure had shot across the drawing-room. She stood at her old friend’s knee. A pair of eyes glowing with all the force of strong, fiery, yet most generous temper, looked down upon Cassandra’s face. ‘I hate the speculations of malicious tongues, Miss Tighe. I will never believe that Geoffrey Arbuthnot “philanders,” whatever the term means, or treats his wife neglectfully. I know him to be manly, straightforward, true. I think Griselda ought to be happy, oh! happy quite beyond the common lot.’ The last words were not uttered without a quiver of Marjorie Bartrand’s lip. Miss Tighe finished, we may well believe, with the theme of love and lovers some thirty-five or forty years before the present time. Was the subject ever of vital personal moment to her? A jealously worn signet-ring, the portrait of a scarlet-coated, dark-eyed lad that hung in her drawing-room, were the only evidence to warrant intimate friends in hazarding a tentative ‘yes.’ Her present interests, said the people of a young and irreverent generation, were of fish, fishy. Are fibres discernible under the microscope in a dogfish’s brain? Can a mollusc see, or only distinguish, between light and darkness? One thing was certain. In Cassandra Tighe’s breast lingered all tender, all womanly sympathy in the troubles of humanity at large. And something in Marjorie’s voice touched her, not to distrust, but compassion. She looked, with the pain that is half foreboding, at the young girl’s ardent, indignant face. ‘Marjorie Bartrand, we are old friends. You always take the lectures I give you in good part.’ ‘I may do so occasionally, Miss Tighe, very occasionally. Let us keep to facts.’ ‘I hope you will take a little lecture in good part now. Drive to Petersport to-morrow, and call on Mrs. Samson Arbuthnot.’ ‘Mrs. Geoffrey Arbuthnot. With so many fables afloat, let us snatch, ma’am, pray, at whatever truth we may.’ ‘Mrs. Geoffrey, if you choose. Although my conviction is unshaken. Drive in to Petersport to-morrow. Call upon your tutor’s wife. Remember her want of birth and education, imagine a little excusable jealousy. Put yourself, in short, in her place, and I am sure your good heart----’ ‘I have no heart. Grandpapa, the whole of my governesses have impressed that upon me often.’ ‘Your good common sense, then, will teach you how you can best befriend her. That is my lecture.’