‘O dear no,’ exclaimed Belle, bridling a little. ‘We are not Lady Baker’s last mania. We are neighbours, and she always invites us to her large parties, and begs us to come to her Thursday kettledrum, and is monstrously civil; but in her heart of hearts she doesn’t care a straw for humdrum country people. She is always taking up artists and singers and actors, and that kind of thing. She positively raves about _them_.’ ‘Ah, I’ve heard something of that before,’ said Geoffrey thoughtfully. ‘She’s musical, isn’t she?’ ‘She calls herself so—goes to the opera perpetually in the London season, and patronises all the local concerts, and gives musical parties—but nobody ever heard her play a note.’ ‘Ah,’ said Geoffrey, ‘I don’t think people with a real passion for music often do play. They look upon the murder of a fine sonata as a species of sacrilege, and wisely refrain from the attempt, but not the deed, which would confound them. By the way, talking of Lady Baker and her protégées, did you ever hear of a Miss Davoren, who was rather distinguished for her fine voice, some years ago?’ ‘Yes,’ said Belle, ‘I have heard Lady Baker rave about her. She was a clergyman’s daughter at Wykhamston. And I have heard other people say that Lady Baker’s patronage was the ruin of her, and that she left her home in some improper way, and broke her poor old father’s heart.’ This little speech sent a sharp pang through another heart, the honest heart that loved the sinner so fondly. ‘You never saw Miss Davoren, I suppose?’ ‘Of course not,’ cried Belle. ‘It was before I was out of the nursery.’ ‘But you were not blind when you were in the nursery; you might have seen her.’ ‘How could I? I didn’t go to Lady Baker’s parties before I was out, and papa doesn’t know many Wykhamston people.’ ‘Ah, then you never saw her. Was she pretty?’ ‘Perfectly lovely, according to Lady Baker; but all her geese are swans.’ ‘She must be a very enthusiastic person, this Lady Baker. Do you think you could contrive to introduce me to her?—to-day, for instance. I can row you down to Mardenholme by one o’clock.’ ‘It would be so dreadfully early to call,’ said Jessie, ‘and then, you see, Thursday is her day. But she’s always extremely kind, and pretends to be glad to see us.’ ‘Why pretends? She may be really glad.’ ‘O, she can’t possibly be glad to see half the county. There must be some make-believe about it. However, she gives herself up to that kind of thing, and I suppose she likes it. What do you think, Belle? Would it look very strange if we called with Geoffrey?’ ‘We might risk it,’ said Belle, anxious to indulge the prodigal. ‘She’s almost sure to be somewhere about the garden if she’s at home. She spends half her life in the garden at Mardenholme.’ ‘Then we’ll find her, and approach her without ceremony,’ replied Geoffrey, sending the boat swiftly through the clear water. ‘Depend upon it, _I_ shall make myself at home.’