After this little talk, Maude's wave of discontent vanished. She did not very often come up to the Court, and when she did, she saw things at a truer value. The summer wore away. Mrs. Burke's liking for Rowena did not lessen, and she more than once had serious talks with her. If Rowena expressed disapproval of certain things, she was not angry with her, only pursued her way, laughing at her "squeamishness." But occasionally she modified her schemes to Rowena's requirements. One afternoon in late September, she and Rowena were enjoying their tea together over a good fire in the big drawing-room. The last of her guests had left the house about an hour before, and Mrs. Burke leant back in her comfortable easy-chair with a sense of relief. "The last of my visitors," she said. "I shall have a quiet week or two, before we move up to town. I hate a winter in the country, but I always come down here for Christmas. It seems the thing to do." "I am sure that reason does not weigh with you," said Rowena laughing. "No, perhaps it does not. I hate conventions." "Will you want me to come up to town with you?" "Why, of course I do. How should I get on without you?" "I could stay down here and caretake for you, and do most of your correspondence without you. You leave me such a free and independent hand in your affairs, that I believe I could carry on, with an occasional inquiry by post." "You are my companion as well as my secretary. Of course I shall want you in town. Don't tell me you would rather vegetate down here, instead of being in the middle of it all." "Oh, I would much rather stay here," said Rowena frankly; "but of course I shall be ready to accompany you." "You are an extraordinary creature—a regular hermit; you seem to care for nothing. And as to money! well, it is a good thing you are not wealthy. It would be wasted upon you." "Oh would it? I don't think so." Rowena's expressive eyes glowed as she gazed into the fire. "Wealth can do so much—I have your command laid upon me that I am not to relieve any of the appeals that come to you by post. I know you have your charity list and it is a big one, but you don't know how I ache sometimes to slip a pound note into an envelope and send it off. There are so many private cases of want and misery that never come before the public at all, and therefore never get relieved." "It's the worst class that begs through the post," said Mrs. Burke indifferently. "Some are humbugs, of course; but I would have a shot or two. I often think of your early days. They have a strange fascination for me. If I were you, I think I would go round to the country villages and ferret out for myself some of the real deserving cases amongst the poor clergy." Mrs. Burke looked at her meditatively. "There might be some sense in that," she said, then added hurriedly, "but you would want a millionaire's income to give away in that style."