A neighbouring family counting itself county, presumably on the strength of never being able to absent themselves from the favoured neighbourhood on account of monetary incapacity, gave its annual garden-party at this time. To this entertainment the whole countryside was in the habit of repairing--not with an idea of enjoying itself, but because everybody did it. To be bidden to this garden-party was in itself a _cachet_ of respectability. This indeed was the only satisfaction to be gathered from the festivity. If the honour was great, the hospitality was small. If the condescension was vast, the fare provided was verging on the stingy. Here were served by half-starved domestic servants, in the smallest of tumblers, “cups” wherein were mixed liquors, such as cider, usually consumed by self-respecting persons in the undiluted condition and in mugs. Upon cucumber-cup, taken in county society, as on a dinner of herbs, one hardly expects the guest to grow convivial. Therefore at this garden-party those bidden to the feast were in the habit of wandering sadly through the shrubbery seeking whom they might avoid, and in the course of such a perambulation, with a young man conversant of himself, Dora met Mrs. Agar. Even the mistress of Stagholme was preferable to the young man from London, and besides--there were associations. So Dora drew Mrs. Agar into her promenade, and presently the young man got his _congé_. At first they talked of local topics, and Mrs. Agar, who had a fine sense of hospitality, said her say about the cider-cup. Then she gave an awkward little laugh, and with an assumption of lightness which did not succeed she said: “I hope, dear, you do not intend to keep my poor boy in suspense much longer?” “Do you mean Arthur?” asked Dora. “Yes, dear. I really don't see why there should be this absurd reserve between us.” “I am quite willing,” replied the girl, “to hear what you have to say about it.” “Yes, but not to talk of it.” “Well, I suppose Arthur has told you all there is to tell. If there is anything more that you want to know I shall be very glad to tell you.” “Well, of course, I don't understand it at all,” burst out Mrs. Agar eagerly. This was quite true; neither she nor Arthur could understand how any one could refuse such a glorious offer as he had made. “Perhaps I can explain. Arthur asked me to marry him. I quite appreciated the honour, but I declined it.” “Yes, but why? Surely you didn't mean it?” “I did mean it.” “Well,” explained Mrs. Agar, with a little toss of the head, “I am sure I cannot see what more you want. There are many girls who would be glad to be mistress of Stagholme.” And it must be remembered that she said this knowing quite well that Jem was probably alive. There are some crimes which women commit daily in the family circle which deserve a greater punishment than that meted out to a legal criminal.