Miss Prudence was astonishingly pretty; it was far from tedious to lie on the bank of the stream and watch her, while her second brother--a lanky youth of fifteen--fished for non-existent trout with an entirely unplausible fly. “So Clara Jenkins said that about me?” I nodded. “Just let it fall, you know, Miss Prudence, in the give-and-take of conversation.” “If you weren’t a stranger in our neighbourhood, you wouldn’t pay any attention to what a girl like that says.” “Oh, but it was about you,” I protested. Prudence looked at me as if she were thinking that I might have been amusing when I was young. “What was the word Clara used?” she asked. “There were two words. ‘Calculating’ was one.” “Oh, was it?” “Yes. The other was ‘heartless.’” “I like that! It’s only what mamma tells me.” “Your mother tells you?” My tone indicated great surprise: her mother is the vicar’s wife, and the alleged counsel seemed unpastoral. “Yes--and it’s quite right too,” Prudence maintained. “You know how poor we are. And there are eight of us!” “Five and three?” “Yes: Johnny at Oxford, Dick at school, and Clarence to go soon! And the girls--you know what girls cost, anyhow!” “They vary, I suppose?” “Just you talk to mamma about that!” That didn’t seem urgent. “Another time,” I murmured, “I shall be pleased to exchange impressions.” I don’t think Prudence heard. She was looking very thoughtful, a minute wrinkle ornamenting her brow. “The boys must have their education; the girls must have justice done to them.” “To be sure! And so----?” “And why shouldn’t one fall in love with a man who--who----” “Would be delighted to do all that?” “Of course he’d be delighted. I mean a man who--who _could_ do it.” “Rich?” “Papa says differences in worldly position are rightly ordained.” “No doubt he’s correct. Your man would have to be quite rich, wouldn’t he? Seven besides you!” “Oh, we aren’t accustomed to much,” said Prudence, with a smile at me which somehow made me wish for a cheque-book and an immense amount of tact; a balance at the bank we will presuppose. “And may I ask,” I resumed, “why you are selected out of all the family for this--er--sacrifice?” She blushed, but she was wary. “I’m the eldest girl, you see,” she said. “Just so,” I agreed. “I was very stupid not to think of that.” “The others are so young.” “Of course. It would be waiting till it was too late?” “Yes, Mr Wynne.” I interpolate here a plain statement of fact. The other girls resemble their mother, and the vicar’s type, reproduced in Miss Prudence, is immeasurably the more refined--not to say picturesque. “Oh, if you won’t be serious!” sighed Prudence--though, as has been seen, I had said nothing. “It certainly is not a laughing matter,” I admitted. “How difficult the world is! Was Sir John at the Jenkins’s?” “Sir John?” “Sir John Ffolliot--of Ascombe, you know.” “Tall red-faced young man?” “Yes, very--I mean, rather. Rather tall, anyhow.” “Oh yes, he was there.”