“Obvious course—indeed,” said Mrs. Rust, much relieved. “Stuff and nonsense. I shall do exactly as I please, whether it’s obvious or not. Suppose I decide to go home by Wednesday’s boat, what then, young man?” The gardener shook his head. “You won’t, I know,” he said. “You are too reasonable.” “Reason be blowed,” said Mrs. Rust with spirit. “You don’t know me very well, young man, if you think I’m like all the other old cats, to be persuaded by that sort of argument.” The gardener was now an expert at saving Mrs. Rust from herself. Although she entangled herself habitually in contradictions, her real mind was not subtle enough to be well hidden, and to guide her action into the path of her desire was a matter that only required a little delicacy. The gardener, being a gardener, was always ready with tactful guidance and unseen support in such matters. In this case, he would have been surprised if you had told him that his secret desire pointed the same way as Mrs. Rust’s. He thought he had killed desire. But he was tired of the Island, and he had by that mail received a quarterly instalment of his income. “Courtesy,” said Mrs. Rust, “we sail for home next Wednesday. Unreasonable—indeed. And none the worse for that.” “We have engaged the car for a week from Friday,” said Courtesy. “Mr. Wise is lunching with us on Thursday. And the hotel insists on a week’s notice.” “I am paying you two hundred a year,” said Mrs. Rust brutally, “to save me from these vulgar details.” “Oh, Lor’,” said Courtesy. “But what about Scottie?” asked the gardener. “Scottie’s your affair, not mine. I’m not paying you £200 a year to follow me about.” The gardener is a very difficult person to snub. “Scottie and I are coming gratis.” And Mrs. Rust said, “Good.” But the little boat, with the suffragette on board of her, fled across the Atlantic, as if aware of the projected pursuit of the great mail steamer. The suffragette, a morose unit on a desert island of her own making, stood separated from the world by a gulf of gossip. She used to sit on the poop, where nobody else would sit, with the wind in her hair and the sun in her eyes, building theories. There are some people who can never see a little cloud of fantasy float across the horizon of their dreams without building a heavy castle in the air upon it, and bringing it to earth. Whenever the suffragette thought of the gardener, she broke the thought with a theory. It is sad to be burdened with a brain that must always track illusion to disillusionment. She had one consolation, one persistent and glorious contradiction, one shining truth in a welter of self-questioning:—“I’m alone—I’m alone—I’m alone....”