“No I’m not,” said Kilmuir. “The post’s going. Quite a good house, and about—about six hundred a year. Fuel. I could have filled it, of course: but I didn’t want someone who’ld get fed up in a week. D’you think you could stick it? It’s lonely up there—after this: and the dawn’s a bit late in the winter, and—I’ve known it pretty cold.” “D’you think I’ld mind that? But what d’you know of me? What makes you think I could manage? I don’t even know myself. In fact, I’m sure I couldn’t. I don’t know what stewards do. I couldn’t control and order—I’ld try to learn, of course, and I’ld simply love the life. I’m choked here—tied and cooped and sickened and choked. I hardly saw a city before I was twelve years old. I was born and bred up in Maine. My grandfather’s place was there. . . .” She hesitated—then burst out suddenly. “Six years ago he died, and everything crashed. They sold my saddles and my very own mare with the others I used to ride. I couldn’t prove she was mine, and if I could have I hadn’t got any money to buy her corn. They sold the curtains I’d made to hang in my rooms, and lamps and mirrors and pictures I’d saved up to buy. They sold everything—house, woods, farms, hills, valleys. . . . And I who’d been mistress of it all was sold too. At least, I was put up for sale. But then you know that. . . . And all because my grandfather had forgotten to sign his will. . . . What was I saying? Oh, I know. Well, now you see why your fantasy dazzles me so. But don’t let’s talk about it any more. I know it’s out of the question, and you know it too. Don’t think I don’t appreciate——” “Why is it out of the question?” “Oh, for a thousand reasons. I should have no authority. A woman——” “I am obeyed—up there.” “I don’t care. A woman can do many things, but she can’t fill a post like that. You know you’re only saying it out of pure——” “I’m not,” said Kilmuir steadily. “It’s always been held by a woman. The last . . . died . . . twenty years ago.” His voice became very soft. “She was the sweetest lady—with the gentlest smile. She never gave an order in all her blessed life, but I think if she’d asked the waves to stop their fretting there would have been a calm. I’ve seen her tend a horse that the grooms were afraid to feed; I’ve seen wild birds on her shoulder; and once I saw a drunkard pour out his store of whisky on the ground before her eyes. I tell you the roughest fisherman hung upon her will. You see, she always understood. She never taught, yet everyone learned of her: she was so humble, yet she was found a queen. Her laugh—well, Eve may have laughed like that, before the apple. . . . And then . . . one day . . . she died. . . .” He took out a letter-case and discovered a photograph. Then he rose and stood in front of the girl. “For what it’s worth, that’s a picture of her.” Susan stared at the beautiful, eager face. . . . A crazy truth, such as one finds in dreams, kept thrusting into her brain. Sharply she flung up her head.