Mary did not move. "I want," she continued abstractedly, "to _live_ in London." Mrs. Martin glanced up at her daughter as if discrediting the authorship of this remark. "I don't know what you are thinking of, child," she said tartly, "but you appear to me to be talking nonsense. Your father and I have no idea of leaving Mudford at present." "I want," Mary went on in the even tone of one hypnotised by a foregone conclusion, "to go and live with Jennifer and write--things." Mrs. Martin's gesture as she rose expressed as much horror as was consistent with majesty. "My dear Mary," she said coldly, "let me dispose of your outrageous suggestion before it goes any further. You appear to imagine that because you have been earning a couple of hundred a year in the Air Force during the War you are still of independent means. Allow me to remind you that you are not. Also that your father and I are unable and unwilling to bear the expenses of two establishments. Please consider the matter closed." She swept from the room. Mary whistled softly to herself, then she walked to the desk and wrote a letter. "... And that's that," she finished. "So now to business. I will send you some articles at the end of the week, and for goodness' sake be quick, because I can't stand this much longer." When she had posted it she retired to her room and was no more seen till dinner. They were bright articles and, like measle-spots, they appeared rapidly after ten days or a fortnight; unlike measles they seemed to be permanent. They dealt irreverently with Mudford society, draped in a thin veil of some alias material, and they signed themselves "Blight." "Disgraceful!" snorted Colonel Martin, throwing one crumpled newspaper after another into the waste-paper basket. "Ought to be publicly burned! As if it weren't enough to find the beastly things all over the Club, without being pestered with them at home, making fun of the best people in Mudford. Bolshevism! Fellow ought to be shot! Wish I knew who he was and I'd do it myself. I _will not_ have another word of this poisonous stuff in my house. D'you hear, Gertrude?" Mrs. Martin trailed into the hall in search of her sunshade. "It's so difficult," she complained _en route_, "to know what paper he's coming out in next and stop it in time;" and she wandered mournfully into the garden. "Mary," she sighed, sinking into a chair on the lawn, "have you noticed anything peculiar in the way people speak to us lately? Of course it may be only my imagination, and yet," she hesitated, "Admiral and Lady Rogers were quite--quite formal to me yesterday." Mary balanced her tennis racquet on her outstretched hand and laughed. "It's the local Blight, I suppose. You and Father are about the only people left who haven't been withered yet, and the others are bound to think there's something suspicious about you. Stupid of me--I didn't think of that. I'm sorry." Her mother started. "What do you mean?" she inquired sharply.