To Saltwoods, that paltry little Dorsetshire manor-house which, by the recent demise of Captain English’s mother, had devolved upon his young widow! The Old Ancient House, as it was invariably called throughout the countryside, set in such preposterous isolation that the letting of it on any terms had ever remained an impossibility—the legacy was by no means acceptable to Sir Arthur. The various sums that he had already had to disburse for its upkeep and repairs had been a very just grievance with him; and one of the many matters of business he had resolved to accomplish on his return to England was the sale, at any loss, of this inconvenient estate. "I mean to go there," said Lady Gerardine in the same tone of delicate deliberation, but sitting up among her cushions and pushing the hair from her forehead with the gesture that he had already learned to regard with some dismay as indicative of "her nervous moments." "Old Mary, the housekeeper, can easily get in a couple of country girls, and that will do for me and Aspasia very well." "Preposterous! Now that’s what I call perfectly idiotic! I don’t want to find fault with you, my dear girl, and of course you’ve been ill and all that. But it’s quite evident you are not yet in a state to see things in their right light. ’A case of sudden neurasthenia upon a highly sensitive organisation,’ as Sir James says." This was certainly a more suitable definition of her ladyship’s malady than the "damn queer low state" of Dr. Saunders; and Sir Arthur rolled it with some complacency upon his tongue. "There, there, we won’t discuss the matter any more just now. Rely upon me to arrange all that is necessary in the most suitable and satisfactory manner." He drew a carved stool to the head of the couch, and possessed himself of her hand in his affectionate way. "There, there, she must not be worried!" Across the fatigue of Lady Gerardine’s countenance came an expression that was almost a faint amusement, tempered with pity. Aspasia watching, very demure, mouse-still, from her lowly post, found the situation one of interest. "You are always kind," said Rosamond then; "but I shall be better at Saltwoods than anywhere. You forget that I have work to do." "Work?" echoed Sir Arthur. He drew back to contemplate her uneasily; positively this sounded like wandering. "It was your wish," she continued (could there lurk in that soft voice an undertone of resentment?), "that I should ... look over"—she hesitated as if she could not pronounce her dead husband’s name and remodelled her phrase—"that I should assist Major Bethune with his book." "Ah!"