Stephen laughed. His wife had not in the least understood the cause of the twinkle. She would not, he reflected. It never occurred to her that any human being could object to meeting any other, unless, indeed, actual assault and battery were to be feared. But Stephen was awake to the fact that it might be startling to Winnie Maxon to meet Mrs. Lenoir--if she knew all about her. Naturally he attributed rigid standards to Mrs. Cyril Maxon, in spite of her proud avowal of open-mindedness, which indeed had seemed to him rather amusing than convincing. "Ledstone's our neighbour," he told Winnie, "the only neighbour who really approves of us. He's taken a cottage here for the summer. You'll like him; he's a jolly fellow. Dennehy's an Irish London correspondent to some paper or other in the States, and a Fenian, and all that sort of thing, you know. Very good chap." "Well, I asked no questions about your guests, but since you've started posting me up--who's Mrs. Lenoir?" "Tora, who is Mrs. Lenoir?" "Who is she? Who should she be? She's just Mrs. Lenoir." Tora was obviously rather surprised at the question, and unprovided with an illuminating answer. But then there are many people in whose case it is difficult to say who they are, unless a repetition of their names be accepted as sufficient. "I must out with it. Mrs. Lenoir was once mixed up in a very famous case--she intervened, as they call it--and the case went against her. Some people thought she was unjustly blamed in that case, but--well, it couldn't be denied that she was a plausible person to choose for blame. It's all years ago--she must be well over fifty by now. I hope you--er--won't feel it necessary to have too long a memory, Winnie?" "I don't exactly see why it's necessary to tell at all," remarked Tora. "Why is it our business?" "But Winnie does?" The question was to Winnie herself. "I know why you told me, of course," she answered. She hesitated, blushed, smiled, and came out with "But it doesn't matter." "Of course not, dear," remarked Tora, as she went off to her roses. All very well to say "Of course not," but to Mrs. Cyril Maxon it was not a case of "Of course" at all. Quite the contrary. The concession she had made was to her a notable one. She had resolved to fall in with the ways of Shaylor's Patch in all possible and lawful matters--and it was not for her, a guest, to make difficulties about other guests, if such a thing could possibly be avoided. None the less, she was much surprised that Mrs. Lenoir should be coming to lunch--she had, in fact, betrayed that. In making no difficulties she seemed to herself to take a long step on the road to emancipation. It was her first act of liberty; for certainly Cyril Maxon would never have permitted it. She felt that she had behaved graciously; she felt also that she had been rather audacious.