“Look!” she said with a laugh, “I’m going to give this to the cock. What would your thrifty Gainah say? They are all going--my pet hens--Flirt and Prim and Sheila. My cock, too--Tatters. Isn’t he a fine fellow? But morals! None. They are neurotic. Old Chalcraft says they eat their eggs because the floor of the run is brick and they can’t scratch. I hate a person who snouts round for a practical solution. It’s just environment--because I am their mistress. Tatters has been more trouble to me than able-bodied twins. I fed him from the very shell with hard-boiled egg and bread-crumb, thereby sowing the seed of future vice, no doubt. I’ve scrubbed his legs with carbolic and anointed him with vaseline for scaly-leg. I read about it in a paper. I came and stood out here, paper in hand, comparing his leg with the symptoms. And then, after all, I found that humpy-bumpy legs were natural to that particular breed. I was overjoyed at his first baby-crow--such a throaty, silly sound. “To be practical--the eggs went. Every time Flirt or Prim or Sheila cackled I rushed out, only to find them stalking gravely up and down with an unconscious expression faintly tinged with injury. And then one day I saw that villain Tatters gulping down the last bit of shell. I’ve sold them at a sacrifice, on condition that they are sent to market and not allowed to demoralize another run. Hone will be here directly; he’s taking them to Liddleshorn. But--Tatters--here!” She threw the egg, flinging back her head at the same moment. The cock rushed at it. In an instant it was gone, yellow yolk, brown shell, stringy white. Mrs. Clutton shrugged and pushed the picturesque black hair from her brow. Pamela said, with a laugh: “Well, you _are_ mad. No one else would have done that.” “Of course not. I get more and more ridiculous. But what can one do? I pay afternoon calls and say mad things. You must shock the people down here--it’s your only chance. I’m bound to talk extravagantly. You can’t discuss gravely for a whole afternoon whether servants should be allowed to wear veils on their afternoons out, or whether it is really economical to wash at home. I wonder what Tim’s first impression of me will be when he comes home!” “You expect him soon?” “Who knows!” She shrugged and led the way into the house. “He’s irresponsible. I got these at a sale--and these--and these.” She pointed out various ornaments on the shelf of her sitting-room. “And Tryphena says that old Mrs. Hillyar is dead. So I shall be able to get her tallboys chest of drawers for the merest trifle: collectors have no conscience.” “Does Mr. Clutton care for old things?” Pamela looked round intolerantly at the mixed collection of antique furniture and bric-a-brac which crowded the room.