“And you haven't seen half,” said Lord Beverdale from the box. “Miss Amelyn's too partial to the village. There's an old drunken retired poacher somewhere in a hut in Crawley Woods, whom it's death to approach, except with a large party. There's malignant diphtheria over at the South Farm, eight down with measles at the keeper's, and an old woman who has been bedridden for years.” But Miss Desborough was adamant, though sparkling. She thanked him, but said she had just seen an old woman “who had been lying in bed for twenty years, and hadn't spoken the truth once!” She proposed “going outside of Lord Beverdale's own preserves of grain-fed poor,” and starting up her own game. She would return in time for luncheon--if she could; if not, she “should annex the gruel of the first kind incapable she met.” Yet, actually, she was far from displeased at being accidentally discovered by these people while following out her capricious whim of the morning. One or two elder ladies, who had fought shy of her frocks and her frankness the evening before, were quite touched now by this butterfly who was willing to forego the sunlight of society, and soil her pretty wings on the haunts of the impoverished, with only a single companion,--of her own sex!--and smiled approvingly. And in her present state of mind, remembering her companion's timid attitude towards Lord Beverdale's opinions, she was not above administering this slight snub to him in her presence. When they had driven away, with many regrets, Miss Amelyn was deeply concerned. “I am afraid,” she said, with timid conscientiousness, “I have kept you from going with them. And you must be bored with what you have seen, I know. I don't believe you really care one bit for it--and you are only doing it to please me.” “Trot out the rest of your show,” said Sadie promptly, “and we'll wind up by lunching with the rector.” “He'd be too delighted,” said Miss Amelyn, with disaster written all over her girlish, truthful face, “but--but--you know--it really wouldn't be quite right to Lord Beverdale. You're his principal guest--you know, and--they'd think I had taken you off.” “Well,” said Miss Desborough impetuously, “what's the matter with that inn--the Red Lion? We can get a sandwich there, I guess. I'm not VERY hungry.” Miss Amelyn looked horrified for a moment, and then laughed; but immediately became concerned again. “No! listen to me, REALLY now! Let me finish my round alone! You'll have ample time if you go NOW to reach the Priory for luncheon. Do, please! It would be ever so much better for everybody. I feel quite guilty as it is, and I suppose I am already in Lord Beverdale's black books.”