We were confirmed in our belief by the attitude of our mother towards those persons detected in daring to walk "our" paths, or touch our wildflowers, or, worst crime of all, disturb our birds. The proper thing to do, on catching sight of any stranger, was to start with an aversion suggested by our mother's, but improved upon--more pictorial. We would all three stare at the intruder, and then allow our eyes to travel to the nearer of the signs, "Trespassers," etc. If this pantomime did not convince the creature of the impropriety of his presence, we would look at one another with wide eyes, as though inquiring: "Can such things be? Are these, then, deliberate criminals? If so"--our looks agreed--"the company of outlaws is not for us." We turned our backs and went home. I was twelve before I realised that we ourselves were trespassers. The heath belonged to Lord Helmstone. That was a blow. Still worse, the later knowledge that Duncombe House and garden were not our own. The laying out of a golf course, and the cheapening of the motor-car, forced the facts upon our knowledge. But I am glad that as little children we did not know these things. We saw ourselves as heiresses to the prettiest house and garden in the world. And no whit less to those broad acres rolling away--with foam of gorse and broom on the crests of their green waves--rolling northward towards London and the future. Two miles to the south was our village--source of such supplies as did not come direct from Big Klaus, or from Little Klaus. We knew the village, because when we were little we went to church there. Big Klaus, the red-faced farmer, who had a great many collie dogs and nearly as many sons, drove us to church in a dog-cart. The moment the squat tower came in view Bettina and I would lean out to see who would be the first to catch sight of Colonel Dover. He was nearly always waiting near the lych-gate to help my mother out of the cart. One or two other people would stop to speak as we came or went. Often they asked, Would she come to a garden-party? Would she play bridge? Would she help with a children's school-treat? And she never did any of these things. Bettina and I liked Colonel Dover till we overheard something Martha Loring said to the cook. Both women seemed to think my mother was going to marry him! Bettina was too young to mind much. Besides, he had beguiled Bettina with chocolate. I was furious and miserable. I said to myself that, of course, my mother would never dream.... But the servants' gossip poisoned all the time of primroses that year. I thought about little else in our walks. Once we met him. Something began that day to whisper in the back of my head: "If he asks her enough she might give in. She does to me when I persist." Out of my first great anxiety was born the beginning of my knowledge of my mother's character. I could see that she, too, was afraid of giving in.