For Linda, a clever politician, never allowed the present to divert her mindfulness from the future. Belonging--_sub silentio_--to the extreme left of any society in which she found herself, Mrs. Thorne kept a firm grip, here in European coteries, as formerly in Indian stations, on whatever Conservative mainstay might be within her reach. Her Guernsey mainstay was the Archdeacon’s wife. Linda was a member, under Madame Corbie, of cutting-out clubs, district-visiting corps, societies for persuading members of all denominations to change places with each other, and similar intricate philanthropies of the hour and place. If, occasionally, serious circles looked with misgiving upon some little new escapade, some unaccustomed outbreak of vivacity at The Bungalow, Linda’s usefulness floated her. There was such a fund of sterling worth in Linda Thorne! So some old lady would say at whose house Linda perhaps, on the preceding evening, demure as a mouse, had been painting Christmas cards for the Caribbee Islanders. Such energy, such zeal for the weaker brethren! Such a genius for collecting subscriptions, or organising fancy bazaars! And then one must not forget the stock she came of. One must always remember what our dear flighty Linda’s grandpapa _was_! Hence, perhaps, the leniency of the judgments. The old Sarnian ladies never forgot that our dear flighty Linda’s grandpapa was an earl. ‘Madame Corbie--tea!’ echoed Lord Rex Basire, the sun-scorched dandy, absently. ‘Ah, there she goes again! The prettiest girl, yes, by Jove! the out-and-outest girl, every way, I have seen in Guernsey. Golden hair, a complexion, a figure.... Let me take the Venerable her cheering cup at once, and set me free to fly after my Dulcinea.’ ‘A new Dulcinea?’ asked Linda, with a glance as sweet as the cup she had prepared for Madame Corbie. ‘I thought Lord Rex Basire had flown after every Dulcinea in the Channel Islands a long time since.’ Lord Rex broke away without reply, causing a good deal of the Venerable’s tea to overflow by reason of his impetuous movements. But he was not set free again as quickly as he desired. Madame Corbie was what the Scottish bailie called ‘a fine respectit half-worn sort of woman.’ Her set of immediate worshippers, poorer cousins for the most part, would speak of her beneath their breath as so superior! Madame Corbie never smiled. Madame Corbie never retracted a step once taken. It was her harmless boast that she had never read a novel in her life--as one would say he had never cut a throat, or picked a pocket. She would wear no black satin that cost less than ten shillings and sixpence (Guernsey currency) per yard. And she surveyed the moral, as she did the physical, world through a pair of smoke-coloured spectacles.