The cascades of tepid water were growing in volume. She was new to this class of caller. Her London experience was pretty large; she had knocked about in her search for bread. She knew the art jargon of Hampstead, the conscientious struggle for intellect and high purpose which distinguishes the prosperous quarter of Bloomsbury. She could talk shops with a feather-headed woman, babies, even, with a bovine one, or the divine duties of sex with the serious. But with these people there was no give-and-take, no merry tossing with the ball, no brightening of the wits. “And I suppose you were living with some other relations in London?” “No,” she said curtly, “I was working for my living. Jethro is my only relation.” “We are all kin, are we not, mamma?” “Of course. So you had a career, dear? Yes. Art? So many girls go in for that. Nancy attended the Liddleshorn school for a time. But I don’t think the influence is good for a young woman. I must say that drawing from a model is not _my_ idea of delicacy.” “Never from the nude, mamma.” “Oh! never from the nude, of course. Unless it was a foot. I think you drew from a foot once, Nancy, love.” “Oh, yes, mamma; but the model only came once. She hadn’t understood that she must take her stockings off.” Pamela was yawning. “I haven’t studied art,” she said curtly. “Literature? A great many girls go in for that. We had an author at Mere Cottage. A most extraordinary person. He put a Latin text over his door. What was it, Nancy?” “_Parva domus magna quies_, mamma.” “Yes, something like that. I’m not quite sure that your Latin is right. But Egbert would know. He is my son at Cambridge.” “The people were so puzzled,” said Nancy. “Old Mrs. Chalcraft declared it meant knock and ring. But one of the other old women said it was a spell to keep witches away.” “It was a stupid thing to put,” Mrs. Turle broke in with impatience. “‘A little house for great quiet.’ That is how my son translated it--my youngest son at Cambridge. That is absurd, of course; little houses never _are_ quiet.” “But he meant, mamma, that he didn’t want people to call.” “Then he need not have troubled to put such a sentence over his door, dear. Old Timms, who is a painter by trade, was half afraid to do it.” “His wife made him give up the job when he got to _magna_, mamma. Some of the old people are so superstitious. She was afraid he might be signing some compact about his soul with the devil.” Pamela laughed. The conversation was waking up, she thought, but Mrs. Turle looked grave. “It was in very bad taste,” she said, “and he need not have troubled. No one meant to call on such people.” “And was it literature, dear?” she continued, more genially. “We are quite literary down here.” She laughed pleasantly, as if introducing Pamela to a congenial atmosphere. “What is the name of that person at the new house on the Liddleshorn Road, Nancy? She keeps a poultry farm and takes in type-writing.” “Samuels, mamma.”