Mrs. Benson brandished her voice. “Ha, you may well ask me. 'No, my man,' he says, 'but 'tis you that must go mine while I'm head-gardener at Wanless,' he says. That's what Mr. Menzies told him, the elderly man that he is--and now look at this. Young Glyde turns his back upon him, with no more notice taken than you or I would have of a flea on the arm. Insolence, that is. Downright insolence of an elderly man. Ah,” said Mrs. Benson with tightening lips, “if you come to troubles!” Miss Percival's tone was sympathetic, if her eyes were still sightless. “Really! I'm very sorry. I'll see Mr. Menzies about it to-morrow, and of course I'll talk to Struan. He _is_ difficult--it's very tiresome of him. I saw him this afternoon but had no notion of all this. I can't think how it is. Nerves, I suppose. He's a human creature, you see, as well as a gardener.” Mrs. Benson was incapable of seeing such a possible combination: her explanation was simpler. Human! She scorned him. “Bad blood,” she said with energy; “bad, black, gypsy blood. He'll be murdering one of us in her bed in a day or two. You see if he don't.” Miss Percival did not deny the suggestion. She considered it rather--its effect, its effectiveness. “Struan is tiresome, of course,” she said, “but I do think he has tried to restrain himself lately. He promised me he would.” She turned her full gaze suddenly upon Mrs. Benson, and almost disarmed that lady. “I like him, you know. He's very nice to me.” Mrs. Benson gasped, but recovered just in time to resume the dark oracles in her keeping. “Ah,” she said, “he _would_ be. If you can call it nice--” “He's wonderful in the garden,” Miss Percival calmly continued. “Even Menzies admits it. He'll work all day. He's never tired.” “Nor's a tiger,” the cook snapped. “Nor's a tom-cat.” Miss Percival looked pitifully at her and smiled. “Poor Struan--you don't like him. I'll see him to-night. I have an influence, I think.” Mrs. Benson touched the hand that lay within her reach, which had lately been upon her shoulder. “Don't, my dear, don't,” she said. “Why not?” asked the lady with her lifted brows. “Why shouldn't I?” “Influence! The likes of him!--Gypsy blood at midnight--soft-voiced, murderous--” She gave no coherent answer, but smiled always, then leaned forward and stroked Mrs. Benson upon her personable cheek. “Dear old thing, let me do as I like. It's much better for everybody,” she presently said. II It had clouded over after sunset: there was no moon visible, but an irradiance was omnipresent, and showed the muffled yew-tree walks, and the greater trees colossal, mountains overshadowing the land. Here and there, as you went, glimmered daffodils, like the Pleiades half-veiled, and long files of crocuses burned like waning fires.