Again he winced, but dropped with relief into the chair. “Oh, one must keep up with the procession, you know!” he said lightly. She made no reply; and as she lifted the bottle and began to beat the yellow mass again, it occurred to him that the remark was exceptionally silly. “Does it have to go in slowly like that--the whole bottleful?” he inquired lazily. She nodded. “Or it curdles,” she explained. “The cook sprained his wrist yesterday. He never allows anybody to make the mayonnaise--he can't trust them--and I was glad to do it for him. He says mine is as good as his. Did you ever see him?” “Well, no,” Varian returned. “But he doesn't need to be seen to be appreciated.” A strange suspicion crept over him. “Do you often--Do you do much--How is it that you--” He could not say it properly. Was it possible that Mrs. Dud---- It was unworthy of her! She caught his meaning, and her cool gray eyes met his with their uncompromising directness. He seemed convicted of unnecessary shuffling. “Oh, Lizzie asked me not to do anything,” she said quietly. “She wanted me to enjoy myself with her friends. But I'm not used to so much society, and I don't want to be any hinderance. I'm not so young as I used to be. I'd have liked the gayety well enough when I was a girl, but I guess it tires me a little now. There seems to be so much going on all the time. Lizzie says she's resting, but it wouldn't rest me. Do you find it so?” He recalled his yesterday's programme: driving a pulling team all the morning; carrying Mrs. Dud's heavy bag over the links all the afternoon--she preferred her friends to caddies; prompting for the dramatics rehearsal, with a poor light, all the evening, while the actors gossiped and squabbled and flirted contentedly. “It is not always restful,” he admitted.