“Lowestoft, I think.” Pamela cocked her head on one side. “But I know nothing of china. Therefore I admire it all--that is a very safe rule in art. Now you and Gainah must run away.” She made a feint of pushing him toward the door. “I’m going to be busier than ever. All this must be arranged to the best advantage. Then the door will be left open, and when next we go to Liddleshorn you must buy a portière.” She jumped upon a chair, and lifted bowls and dishes from the top shelf, making a running comment as she did so. “I wish I knew printed from painted. This dish is either very valuable or utterly worthless; some things are just on the borderland. You two must really go away.” She put out one hand deprecatingly. “There ought to be some tin tacks, or a ledge, in front of the shelves, so that the plates could stand up.” Gainah looked at her, a brilliant, dainty, voluble creature, high up on a mahogany chair whose back was carved in wheat-ears. She had all the color and pertness of a bullfinch. She looked at her, this dangerous republican; looked at white fingers carelessly handling china which for over thirty years only her own hands had touched. She had grown to believe that it was hers, that Jethro himself was hers, and the farm too, with its fat acres and its ripe family tradition. She had been undisputed queen at Folly Corner the best part of her life. All the family connections, when they paid Jethro a rare visit, had deferred to her. Yet not one of them knew the truth--that Jethro’s father had almost married her. She thought of that as she watched Pamela standing radiant on the chair. A horrible pang for the muddles, incomplete past, and a still more set feeling of bitterest, merciless revenge contracted her heart. She turned away without a word, leaving the cousins in the china closet. She sat herself down in the ruins of her temple, and looked blankly at the devastation wrought by Pamela’s active fingers in two short hours. She knew for whom this room had been refurnished more than thirty years before. Not for Jethro’s mother. She, after the fashion of frugal first wives, had saved and gone short of household elaborations. The room had been furnished for _her_. She, Gainah Toat, had been the elder Jethro’s second fancy. She had been a good-looking woman well within thirty in those days; while he had been nearer sixty, having married a middle-aged cousin--of the plain variety of women, warranted to wear well--when he was fifty or more. But she, Gainah, had inspired him with positive passion. Bah! She knew what a man’s passion was, and how far it led him. She knew that it made even a miser like the elder Jethro dip deeply into his pocket.