"They took some bread and jam and went out with the boys," said Mrs. Marsh vaguely. "I don't know exactly where--they were going to have a picnic, I think. You really must help, Hilda. Gwendoline" (Mary Jane was not to be tolerated) "has too much to do as it is. Your father will soon be home, and will want something; and I'm that tired! Oh dear me, how tired I am!" "Well, I can't help it, mother. You will have to manage with Gwendoline as best you can. I must get my blue dress cleaned and altered. Mrs. Darrow has asked me to dinner to-morrow night." "Who is to be there?" asked Mrs. Marsh with a ray of interest in her tired blue eyes. "Mr. Barton, Mr. Arkel, and Major Dundas. I suppose that horrid governess will be there too. She was with Mr. Arkel just now." "How did she come to know him?" "Oh, she's a sly creature. She has managed to make his acquaintance somehow, and I can see the fool is quite taken already with her airs and graces." "Hilda!" said her mother apprehensively, for Mr. Arkel was the second string to Hilda's bow, and it was supposed would inherit the Manor House. "That must not be." "Oh, so far as I am concerned, they can please themselves. If Mr. Arkel prefers red hair and freckles, he can do so. Major Dundas may have better taste." "But he is not rich, dear--he will never be." "How do you know that?" retorted Hilda, who made a rule of contradicting her mother on principle. "Mr. Barton may make him his heir instead of Gerald Arkel. Or for that matter, I shouldn't be surprised if the horrid old thing left his money to an asylum." "Be sure of that before you marry either of them," said the anxious mother. "Unless," with a touch of romance, "you are in love with----" "Love!" Hilda echoed the word with fine contempt. "I want money, not love. Either Major Dundas or Gerald would make a good enough husband. I like Gerald the best--he is better looking and not so dull as the Major. But I'd marry anyone--even old Barton, much as I hate him, to get out of this pig-sty." "It is your only home," said Mrs. Marsh with dignity. "That's exactly why I want to get out of it, mother. If that red-haired governess tries any of her pranks, trust me, I won't spare her." "Whatever do you mean, Hilda?" "Never you mind, mother," Miss Marsh nodded mysteriously. "I've been talking with Mrs. Darrow, and she says--well, don't bother about it just now. But Miss Crane--if that _is_ what her name is--is no saint, believe me. I'm not altogether sure that she's respectable." "Hilda!" Mrs. Marsh's middle-class virtue was up in arms. "If that is so, you must not associate with her. Our house is lowly (she might have added dirty), lowly, but genteel." "Now don't you bother, ma. Leave the governess to me. If you talk you'll spoil all." "All what?" cried Mrs. Marsh, frantic with curiosity. "H'm, h'm," Hilda nodded again. "Come upstairs, ma, and look over my dresses. I must look particularly well to-morrow night."