‘You may oil her, or varnish her, or do anything that is proper to be done with her before you put her away for the winter, Bink,’ Daphne said to her faithful attendant; ‘I shan’t row any more this year.’ ‘Lor, miss, we may have plenty more fine days yet.’ ‘I don’t care for that. I am tired of rowing. Perhaps I may never row again.’ She went into luncheon yawning, and looking much more tired than Madoline, who had been writing letters for her father all the morning. ‘I wish I were a hunting young woman, Lina,’ she said. ‘Why, dear?’ ‘Because I should have something to look forward to in the winter.’ ‘If you could only employ yourself more indoors, Daphne.’ ‘Do I not employ myself indoors? Why, I play billiards for hours at a stretch when I have anyone to play with. I practised out-of-the-way strokes for an hour and a half this morning.’ ‘I am sure, dear, you would be happier if you had some more feminine amusements; if you were to go on with your water-colour painting, for instance. Gerald could give you a little instruction when he is here. He paints beautifully. I’m sure he would be pleased to help you.’ ‘No, dear; I have no talent. I like beginning a sketch; but directly it begins to look horrid I lose patience; and then I begin to lay on colour in a desperate way, till the whole thing is the most execrable daub imaginable; and then I get into a rage and tear it into a thousand bits. It’s just the same with my needlework; there always comes a time when I get my thread entangled, and begin to pucker, and the whole business goes wrong. I have no patience. I shall never finish anything. I shall never achieve anything. I am an absolute failure.’ ‘Daphne, if you only knew how it pains me to hear you talk of yourself like that——’ ‘Then I won’t do it again. I would not pain you for the wealth of this world—not even to have it always summer, instead of a dull, abominable, shivery season like this.’ ‘Gerald says it is lovely in Argyleshire; balmy and warm; almost too hot for walking over the hills.’ ‘He is enjoying himself, I suppose,’ said Daphne coldly. ‘Yes; he is having capital sport.’ ‘Shooting those birds that make our dining-room smell so nasty every evening, and helping to stock Aunt Rhoda’s larder.’ ‘He does not intend to stay after the end of this month. He will be home early in October.’ Daphne did not even affect to be interested. She was feeding Goldie, who was allowed to come in to luncheon when Sir Vernon was not in the way. ‘I had a letter from Mrs. Turchill this morning,’ said Lina; ‘she is enjoying herself immensely at Torquay. Edgar is very attentive and devoted to her, going everywhere with her. He is a most affectionate son.’ ‘And a good son makes a good husband, doesn’t he, Lina? Is that idea at the bottom of your mind when you talk of his goodness to his very commonplace mother?’ ‘I don’t want to talk of him, Daphne, to any one who values him so little as you do.’