There was always Patience, of course, but there were few days when this proved to be anything but a dreary makeshift. Mrs. Greene would lay out the cards, idly pick up the kings and queens, turn them about as if the designs were new to her and forget what Patience she had embarked on. Even Miss Dorset's nervous system was not proof against the strain of watching her try to play "Monte Carlo" with cards arranged for "Demon." After dinner was a blessedly short period, and generally a happy one. Summer and winter alike Mrs. Greene would come through from the dining-room in a mood of tranquil acquiescence; content either to dream by the open window with the scent of stocks from the flower beds and hay from the meadows beyond, blowing in on the cool night breeze, or else to sit in front of the fire gazing at the glowing logs which helped her to focus her mind and recapture elusive memories. On this November day each section had provided its own solution. "I think perhaps you should put on something warm," said Miss Dorset, avoiding instinctively any suggestion that she was dictator rather than adviser in the matter of wraps. "It's a lovely sunny day but there's a cold wind blowing round the corner of the house." She arranged Mrs. Greene's heavy cape as she spoke, and then gently took her arm as they began the laborious descent of the stairs. This safely accomplished and the old lady deposited for a moment on a chair in the hall, Miss Dorset hurried off to fetch her own coat. "There now, we're all ready," she stated cheerfully on her return. "Will you have your walking-stick?" She handed it to Mrs. Greene and they set off, walking slowly towards the walled garden, where clumps of tattered Michaelmas daisies, some limp and shabby chrysanthemums, and a few stalwart dahlias still defied the coming winter. A sudden jocose gust of wind swept the leaves along the untidy earthen borders, whirled under Mrs. Greene's cape, and set all the branches rustling and all the tree tops tossing madly. "You're sure this isn't too much for you?" asked Miss Dorset anxiously. Everything was in motion; trees, bushes, and tatterdemalion flower heads. Even the earth seemed to move under the restless scattering leaves. "I like it," she announced stoutly, and breathed deep of the rich odour of decay that rose like a miasma from the ground. "I like autumn; it's the time for adventures and fine deeds; it's the bravest season of all." "That's quite true; I should like to die in the autumn." Miss Dorset's answer was as totally unexpected as was the intensity with which she spoke. Mrs. Greene looked at her for a moment. "You're still young," she said. "Death isn't the only adventure left for you as it is for me. You ought to like spring best, when the celandines come out." Miss Dorset relapsed into her usual quiet apologetic manner, so strangely at variance with the uncompromising ferocity of her sentiments.