“I don’t mean,” Marjorie explained, “that she is different to other people--only to mamma and myself. Her servants are in terror of her, and her tenants hate her, and so on; but she has been really kind to me. I think she likes me. We were staying with her a few weeks ago. You’ll be surprised to hear that she likes you too.” “Of course,” said Maurice, “it is surprising that any one likes me, as you say.” “I don’t think I said that. She told me quite suddenly once that she liked Maurice Grey, because he was the cleverest man she knew in one respect. Mamma suggested that it was because you understood her. ‘No, my dear,’ said Aunt Julia, ‘the village people do that, because I speak plainly, and they try to pay me back again for it. He always misunderstood me. I like him. He will not do much, because he can’t concentrate himself on one thing; but I like Maurice Grey all the same.’” Marjorie did not repeat any more of Aunt Julia’s conversation; but the old lady had gone on to say that Maurice, however, would probably concentrate himself on one person. She added, in her point-blank way, that she intended him ultimately to marry Marjorie. She did not appear to think that Marjorie, or Maurice, or Mrs. Meyner, could have a voice in the matter; the marriage was one of the things that the perverse old woman had made up her mind to arrange. “I’m glad that dear old lady likes me,” said Maurice. “I always liked her--I really did. She was full of such striking and impressive contrasts--the soft, purring voice and the ill-tempered words--her gentle, peaceful face and her fearful pugnacity. And I like her more because she has been good to you, you say.” “Did you ever,” asked Marjorie, hurriedly going to another subject, “find out anything new about the intelligence of the brute creation?” “I think I used to tell some lies about a favourite terrier of mine once, and made myself believe them. No, Marjorie, that has not been my line. It has been quite enough to find out that I and you, and all the rest of us, have got no intelligence worth mentioning, none that will do a thousandth part of what we want it to do. What made you ask that?” “I was thinking about that beetle you found on the common when you were stopping with us once, and about the dream I had.” “Ah! I remember that.” “I never found the dead beetle, although I hunted everywhere for it, and I never remembered what it told me about you.” “I did not tell you at the time, Marjorie, but I had a dream about the beetle that same night. It came to me that night and told me everything I wanted to know--the things I have been working at for the last two years. Of course, they were all gone when I awoke, but I can remember it saying that I should know them all one day. I am afraid that dead beetle lied.”