A few days later, Connie, returning from a ramble with one of Lady Winifred’s stray dogs along the banks of the Scarfe, found her two aunts at tea in the garden. “Sit down, my dear Connie,” said Lady Marcia, with a preoccupied look. “We have just heard distressing news. The clergy are such gossips!” The elevation of Aunt Winifred’s sharp nose showed her annoyance. “And you, Marcia, are always so dreadfully unfair to them. You were simply dying for Mr. Latimer to tell you all he knew, and then you abuse him.” “Perfectly true,” said Lady Marcia provokingly, “but if he had snubbed me, I should have respected him more.” Whereupon it was explained to Connie that a Mr. Latimer, rector of the Fallodens’ family living of Flood Magna, had just been paying a long visit to the two ladies. He was a distant cousin and old crony of theirs, and it was not long before they had persuaded him to pour out all he knew about the Falloden affairs. “They must sell everything!” said Lady Marcia, raising her hands and eyes in protest—“the estates, the house, the pictures—my dear, think of the pictures! The nation of course ought to buy them, but the nation never has a penny. And however much they sell, it will only just clear them. There’ll be nothing left but Lady Laura’s settlement—and that’s only two thousand a year.” “Well, they won’t starve,” said Aunt Winifred, with a sniff, applying for another piece of tea-cake. “It’s no good, Marcia, your trying to stir us up. The Fallodens are not beloved. Nobody will break their hearts—except of course we shall all be sorry for Lady Laura and the children. And it will be horrid to have new people at Flood.” “My dear Connie, it is a pity we haven’t been able to take you to Flood,” said Lady Marcia to her niece, handing a cup of tea. “You know Douglas, so of course you would have been shown everything. Such pictures! Such lovely old rooms! And then the grounds—the cedars—the old gardens! It really is a glorious place. I can’t think why Winifred is so hard-hearted about it!” Lady Winifred pressed her thin lips together. “Marcia, excuse me—but you really do talk like a snob. Before I cry over people who have lost their property, I ask myself how they have lost it, and also how they have used it.” The little lady drew herself up fiercely. “We have all got beams in our own eyes,” cried Aunt Marcia. “And of course we all know, Winifred, that Sir Arthur never would give you anything for your curates.” “That has nothing to do with it,” said Lady Winifred angrily. “I gave Sir Arthur a sacred opportunity—which he refused. That’s his affair. But when a man gambles away his estates, neglects his duties and his poor people, wastes his money in riotous living, and teaches his children to think themselves too good for this common world, and then comes to grief—I am not going to whine and whimper about it. Let him take it like a man!”