To him entered Miss Ursula Harbord. She wore _pince-nez_ and a sage-green costume of some art fabric--one of the numerous crimes committed in the name of Liberty. She was Joan Gaymer's latest fad; and under her persuasive tutelage Joan was beginning to learn that the men who all her life had served her slightest whim were at once monsters of duplicity and brainless idiots; and that, given a few more fervid and ungrammatical articles in "The New Woman," women would shortly come to their own and march in the van of civilisation, and that people like Ursula Harbord would march in the van of the women. Pending this glorious destiny, Miss Harbord acted as unsettler-in-general of Joan's domestic instincts, and worried Hughie considerably. She was followed into the room by Joan; very much the Joan of last summer, if we make allowances for the distressing appearance presented by a young woman of considerable personal attractions who is compelled by Fashion's decree, for this season at any rate, to obscure her features under a hat which looks like an unsuccessful compromise between a waste-paper basket and a dish-cover. "Well, John," she inquired in her friendly fashion, "have you quite settled down in London?" "Aye, mem." "Not missing Scotland?" continued Joan, peeling off her white gloves and sitting down in an arm-chair. "Naething to speak of," said John. "I thought," continued Miss Gaymer, surveying Mr. Goble's Cimmerian features, "that you had perhaps left your heart there." "Ma hairt? What for would I dae a thing like that?" enquired the literal Mr. Goble. "A hairt is no a thing a body can dae wi'oot," he explained. "It's no like a rib. Ye jist get the ane, so ye canna afford tae get leavin' it ony place." Miss Gaymer smilingly abandoned the topic, and in all probability the ghost of Sydney Smith chuckled. "When are you going to pay us another visit at Manors?" was Joan's next question. "I'm no sure," said Mr. Goble. "Mr. Marrable has jist given me notice." "Oh, John!" said Joan, "what have you been doing? Breaking his china?" "Drinking his wine?" suggested Miss Harbord, turning from a scornful inspection of Hughie's stock of current literature. "I doot I'm no givin' satisfaction," said John. "But, John, I am _sure_ you are!" said Joan. "Was that the reason he gave?" "He said he was givin' up keepin' a man-servant." Miss Harbord, who had been craning her neck to see something in the street, turned round sharply. "Why? Has he been losing money?" "I couldna say, mem," said Mr. Goble woodenly. He shared his master's antipathy to Miss Harbord. That lady shook her head resignedly. "I thought so!" she said. "Joan, dear--" At this moment Hughie entered, and Miss Harbord's fire was diverted. "Mr. Marrable, have you got rid of that cabman?" she enquired with truculence. "Rather!" said Hughie. "He went like a lamb." "He was intoxicated," remarked Miss Harbord freezingly.