“That is unanswerable,” says Lavinia, blushing even before the children at this new instance of Féodorovna’s monstrous candour; adding, in a not particularly elate key, as her glance takes in a _recherché_ object nearing their little group across the white grass of the still wintry glebe, “Why, here _is_ Féo!” “They told me your mother was out,” says the visitor, as if this were a sufficient explanation for her appearance. The children greet her with the hospitable warmth which nature and training dictate towards _any_ guest, _qua_ guest, but without the exuberant, confident joy with which they always receive Lavinia. However, they repeat the tale of General Forestier Walker’s crime and fate, and add, as peculiarly interesting to their hearer, the name of the presiding judge. Féodorovna listens with an absence of mind and eye which she does not attempt to disguise. “I was coming on to you,” she says, addressing Lavinia, and turning away with an expression of boredom from her polite little hosts. “I should have asked you to give me luncheon, but since I find you here, it does as well.” Neither in voice nor manner is there any trace of the resentment that Miss Carew is guiltily feeling. Féodorovna never resents. Too well with herself often to perceive a slight, and too self-centred to remember it, Lavinia realizes with relief that all recollection of the peril Miss Prince’s shoulders had run at Sir George’s all-but ejecting hands has slidden from that fair creature’s memory. “I went to London yesterday,” she says, turning her back upon the cocks and hens, and their young patrons, as unworthy to be her audience. “We saw you drive past,” says Phillida, innocently; “you went by the 11.30 train. We were not looking out for you; we were watching Lavy and Rupert. From mother’s bedroom we can see right into their garden.” “Can you, indeed?” interposes the voice of Mrs. Darcy, who has come upon the little group unperceived by the short cut from the village. “I am glad you told me, as I shall try for the future to find some better employment for your eyes.” Her voice is quite quiet, and not in the least raised; but the children know that she is annoyed, and so does Lavinia, who, with a flushed cheek and an inward spasm of misgiving, is trying to reconstruct her own and her _fiancé’s_ reciprocal attitudes at eleven o’clock of yesterday’s forenoon. To them all for once Féodorovna’s unconscious and preoccupied egotism brings relief. “I was telling Lavinia that I went to London yesterday.” “For the day? to buy chiffons? I suppose I shall have to reclothe this ragged regiment soon,” looking round ruefully at her still somewhat abashed offspring, and avoiding her friend’s eye. “Chiffons! oh no!” a little contemptuously. “I went up to see the Director-General of the Army Medical Department.” “Indeed! Is he a friend of yours?” “Oh dear no; I went on business.”