“I’ve had a helper,” said the woman who wore spats. That time the blue-eyed lady had smiled at him quite definitely.... The third member of the party had appeared unobserved; the irradiations of the beautiful lady had obscured her. Bealby discovered her about. She was bareheaded; she wore a simple grey dress with a Norfolk jacket, and she had a pretty clear white profile under black hair. She answered to the name of “Winnie.” The beautiful lady was Madeleine. They made little obscure jokes with each other and praised the morning ardently. “This is the best place of all,” said Madeleine. “All night,” said Winnie, “not a single mosquito.” None of these three ladies made any attempt to conceal the sincerity of their hunger or their appreciation of Bealby’s assistance. How good a thing is appreciation! Here he was doing, with joy and pride and an eager excellence, the very services he had done so badly under the cuffings of Mergleson and Thomas.... § 4 And now Bealby, having been regarded with approval for some moments and discussed in tantalizing undertones, was called upon to explain himself. “Boy,” said the lady in the deerstalker, who was evidently the leader and still more evidently the spokeswoman of the party, “come here.” “Yes, miss.” He put down the boot he was cleaning on the caravan step. “In the first place, know by these presents, I am a married woman.” “Yes, miss.” “And miss is not a seemly mode of address for me.” “No, miss. I mean—” Bealby hung for a moment and by the happiest of accidents, a scrap of his instruction at Shonts came up in his mind. “No,” he said, “your—ladyship.” A great light shone on the spokeswoman’s face. “Not yet, my child,” she said, “not yet. He hasn’t done his duty by me. I am—a simple Mum.” Bealby was intelligently silent. “Say—Yes, Mum.” “Yes, Mum,” said Bealby and everybody laughed very agreeably. “And now,” said the lady, taking pleasure in her words, “know by these presents—By the bye, what is your name?” Bealby scarcely hesitated. “Dick Mal-travers, Mum,” he said and almost added, “The Dauntless Daredevil of the Diamond-fields Horse,” which was the second title. “Dick will do,” said the lady who was called Judy, and added suddenly and very amusingly: “You may keep the rest.” (These were the sort of people Bealby liked. The _right_ sort.) “Well, Dick, we want to know, have you ever been in service?” It was sudden. But Bealby was equal to it. “Only for a day or two, miss—I mean, Mum,—just to be useful.” “_Were_ you useful?” Bealby tried to think whether he had been, and could recall nothing but the face of Thomas with the fork hanging from it. “I did my best, Mum,” he said impartially. “And all that is over?” “Yes, Mum.” “And you’re at home again and out of employment?” “Yes, Mum.” “Do you live near here?” “No—leastways, not very far.” “With your father.” “Stepfather, Mum. I’m a Norfan.”