And, as the result of this, Penelope went away into the country, though it was May, with Ethel Mytton and Mrs. Cadwallader, who was called Chloe, and stood by Pen remorselessly in every difficulty. For Pen had helped her out of an awful mess, the history of which would make a whole story of itself. As a result of it, Cadwallader was in the Rocky Mountains shooting, and a certain young soldier was taking too much liquor and too little quinine in Nigeria, and Chloe got her diamonds back from Messrs. Attenborough, and was eternally grateful to Penelope in consequence. "And I shall send for them one by one," said Penelope. "They can come down by the ten o’clock train from Paddington, and go back by the five o’clock one from here. And after lunch I shall explain my ideas to them." "And I’ll be with you," said Chloe, who was as dark-locked as a raven’s wing. "Oh, I don’t mind," said Penelope; "of course you will. I’m too young, am I not, to be left alone, Chloe? Is it true, Chloe, that the older a woman gets the bigger fool she is?" Chloe said it was true. "I’ll ask Titania to let Bob come over," said Penelope. "He’s the wisest person I know." Bob was Titania’s grandson, and was certainly young enough to be wise, as he was only fourteen. He had been sent to three of the great public schools, and had been taken away because of his fighting capabilities. He never knew when he had enough, and it is quite impossible to keep a boy at any school if he breaks out of bounds to fight some young butcher or baker in a back alley at least once a week. Now he had a tutor who had been an amateur boxer of great merit. It began to take the tutor all his time to handle his pupil. But if Bob was knocked endways about three times a week, it sobered him and made him do his work. He did not yet know whether he wanted to be a prize-fighter or the commander-in-chief. But he loved Penelope. "I’ll send for Bob," said Penelope. And Bob came with Mr. Guthrie, his tutor, and Titania was glad to get rid of him for a time. "Oh, Pen," said Bob, "how jolly kind of you to ask me. I’m sick of grandmother; she worries me to death. Always says, ’Robert, you mustn’t.’ I say, have you read Kip’s ’Cat that Walked by Himself’? Mr. Guthrie says it’s splendid, and I say it’s rot. But old Guth likes Virgil and Horace. Isn’t that strange, for he can box like anything. Baker, the groom, says he can. And Baker’s awful good with the mitts. But I say, Pen, what’s all this about you in the papers? Grandmother wails when she sees one now. I ain’t sure I like having you so much in the papers, Pen." "I don’t like it, either," said Penelope, "but I can’t help it." "Is it true that you’re going to be married and never tell any one?" demanded Bob from the bottom of a huge rocking-chair, as they sat on the lawn. They were in one of Pen’s habitable houses, and the lawn ran down to the Thames.