Dacre’s object being attained, there was no further use for organized “cussedness” so he had relapsed into his ordinary state of gusty wickedness, which being natural was nothing very especial in the way of a pastime, and quite unlike the six months’ excitement of his raid on society. There was nothing to supply the place of this now, nothing—neither cricket, football, nor even riding—so small wonder that life was pretty much of a blank to the boy. It was even worse for Gwen, the mover and the mainspring of the enterprise. When she found herself landed victoriously on the threshold of her goal, with her conscious triumph there got mixed other sensations of a most unpleasant nature. The horrible feeling of flat inaction after the whirl of action, that plays havoc with all great conquerors, seized on her, and did the same by this little one, and then she had none of the fêtes and the follies that follow hot on the heels of other conquerors for their consolation. She felt the most miserable victor breathing, her soul was brimming with bitterness, and the overflow vented itself largely on Dacre’s luckless pate. The children having nothing to go upon could arrive at no very satisfactory solution to their mysterious summons. Mary’s look as she smoothed Gwen’s hair, put Dacre’s collar straight, and kept on fussing round when she had no more to do, made things look more mysterious still, then she sighed like a steam-engine the whole time, which added a presage-of-ill character to the mystery that irritated Gwen horribly. “For goodness sake, Mary, do go!” she cried at last in despair, “go! You are like the old turkey when her ducklings ran out into the lake the other day.” Mary straightened her glasses and looked at the child. “’Tis brains is the matter with you, my dear,” she said; “however could you guess at the very thoughts as were running in my head? I was thinking of the creature flapping there helpless and I was lik’ning myself to her that very minute. Master Dacre would never have guessed it, bless him!” Gwen felt she had scored a point and continued, “What is going to happen to us, Mary?” Mary regarded her in silence. “If you know you might tell us,” said the girl impatiently, “or,” she added scornfully, “are you still more like the turkey, and are only frightened because you know so little?—you look like that.” “Oh Lord!” muttered the woman under her breath, feeling very hard hit, but she replied with dignity, “My dear, it certainly ain’t my place to tell you what your parents have thought fit not to acquaint you with.” “They see fit to acquaint us with nothing as far as I can see. Well, as you can’t tell us or don’t know anything to tell us, do go away, please. You move about so and look so queer, you make one think that a horrible new thing is coming on us, so do go, please. I’m not cross or nasty, only I feel queer myself and frightened, I could scream and yell and howl this minute—oh, I wish Mrs. Fellowes was here.”