Before he could stop her, she put her mare at the fence, and popped over. Lionel joined her, delighted with her pluck. Without a lead, in cold blood, on a strange mount, she had negotiated triumphantly a rather nasty place. When he complimented her, she said carelessly: “I love excitements.” For the first time he beheld her as the “dasher.” * * * * * A meeting between Joyce and the little lady duly took place. Joyce, of course, was at a slight disadvantage. In Lady Margot she beheld Lionel’s probable wife. In Joyce Lady Margot beheld a pretty, intelligent girl, the parson’s daughter, more or less cut to approved pattern. She was perfectly charming to Joyce, and came to the instant conclusion that she must be reckoned with seriously. Joyce’s first talk alone with her confirmed this. Lady Margot said chaffingly: “I hear you are the ministering angel, carrying soup and tea and sympathy to the villagers. Do tell me all about it. I have never been able to do that. At Beaumanoir, when I was seventeen, I made the effort. I remember reading the Bible to an old woman. She went to sleep, poor old dear. I discovered later that she was very deaf. She listened to the Bible when she was awake in the hope of getting something more material.” Joyce laughed and nodded; she knew the type. But she said quietly: “I don’t carry soup and tea to them. Father is dead against that, except in emergency cases.” “Please tell me what you do.” “I have been through a simple course of village cookery. I try to teach the mothers how to make their own soup, a _pot-au-feu_, how to cook vegetables, and grow them. All the little dodges which save time and fuel and money. Very poor people are astoundingly extravagant and thriftless. It’s uphill work. I move about as fast as the hour hand of a clock.” “What else?” “Oh, other little dodges to secure ventilation and hygiene. Anything which makes them learn to help themselves, to rely upon themselves rather than upon charity. Father has worked steadily along those lines. We have started one or two tiny industries, basket-weaving, mat-making.” “You like all that?” “I love it, when one gets a glimpse of—results.” “Will you take me round with you?” “With pleasure.” That evening, Lady Margot wrote to a friend, describing Joyce: “The parson’s daughter here is a striking combination of the useful and ornamental, as clear as her skin. She has an abundance of brown wavy hair with golden threads in it, and eyes to match, features good enough— everything about her well-proportioned, including, so far as I can judge, the mind. She is healthy, but not aggressively bouncing. I am told that a Cambridge Don is much enamoured. Everybody likes her, and so do I, perhaps because she is my antithesis in every way. Happy blood ebbs and flows in her cheeks. I envied a brace of dimples. . . .”