“What?” “Run away with you.” Mr Fanshawe again pressed her close to him. They were walking, sauntering, all this time through the wood in any direction Fate might lead them. He sighed. “That’s the rub,” said he. “How?” “I will tell you. Patsy comes in here. This morning at seven, General Grampound, my revered uncle, rang his bell. Patsy answered it. Patsy was commissioned to tell a maid to tell Lady Seagrave that General Grampound requested an interview with her ‘at once’ on business of the gravest importance. Lady Seagrave replied that she would see him at eight o’clock in her boudoir. “A few minutes after eight the boudoir bell rang, and Patsy, who scented mischief, answered it. He found the General and the lady together, but unable to communicate, as the lady in her hurry had left her ear-trumpet on her dressing-room table. Patsy was sent to fetch it.” Mr Fanshawe paused, and, despite his dejection, chuckled. “Patsy,” he went on, “does not love my uncle. Patsy, as far as I can understand his character, is a compound of Machiavelli, Bismarck, Puck, and one of Shakespeare’s fools all compressed into a page-boy in buttons. Patsy saw the ear-trumpet on the table, and by the trumpet a bottle of eau de Cologne. The combination would have meant nothing to an ordinary person, but in Patsy’s mind it suggested the idea of playing the ‘ould Gineral a trick.’” “Go on,” said Violet interestedly. “He took the cork from the eau de Cologne bottle and popped it into the ear-trumpet.” “Oh, bravo, Patsy!” cried Miss Lestrange. “Go on, go on!” “Not only did he pop it in, but he rammed it tight, with a long button-hook. Then he brought the ear-trumpet down, handed it to Lady Seagrave, and shut the door. Then he listened.” “What did he hear?” “As far as I can gather, it was like listening to a scene in a French farce. You know, the old girl hates to be thought deaf, and my uncle hates to be thought stupid. Strange, that people with such obvious defects should try to hide them. The General began to explain himself; she requested him to speak louder. He bellowed, and she asked him was he deaf. They seemed to have insulted one another for a quarter of an hour or so without getting any ‘forrader’; at all events, he was unable to tell her what he wanted to tell her, about us last night.” “Thank heaven!” said Violet. “Not that I would care a button about any one knowing, but, O Dicky, women feel about things differently to men, and you can’t think the—the—_deep_ satisfaction that eau de Cologne cork has given to my mind. She is such a meddler, such a fusser, and she has such notions of propriety. You can’t understand an old lady of that sort, because you are not a woman. If she had heard what he said, she would have made you go off at once—I know her.”