It is just as I feared. The trouble is in my right knee, so stiff that I can scarcely bend it, and exceedingly painful. Cecilia calls it 'a touch of rheumatism.' 'Indeed,' I said, 'it's a pretty secure grasp, not a touch; were I what is called a _danseuse_, my livelihood would be gone, but mercifully I don't need to dance.' Cecilia laughed; she thinks nothing of any illness but neuralgia. 'We must leave this place very soon,' said I, 'and return to Tunbridge Wells; life here is fit only for cannibals.' In the morning it was impossible for me to come down to breakfast, but with great difficulty I dragged myself downstairs about eleven. I felt it my duty to the son of an old friend to seek an opportunity for quietly speaking my mind to Sir Archibald about Miss Pomeroy, so decided to do it at once. I found them together, as usual, in the coffee-room. The girl was looking pale; she is beginning to be afraid that her arts are in vain. Sir Archibald was standing beside her, looking very much bored. She made some excuse, and left the room soon after I had come in. 'I hope you are not the worse of your adventure in the motor, Mrs. MacGill,' Sir Archibald began. 'Thank you,' said I, sitting down close to him. 'I am, a good deal. My right knee is excessively painful, and I have a very strange buzzing in the head.' 'Ah, you are not accustomed to the motor; it's all habit.' 'I am _not_ accustomed to a motor, Sir Archibald,' said I, 'nor am I accustomed to the ways of young women nowadays,--_young ladies_ we used to be called when I was a girl, but I feel that the phrase is quite inapplicable to a person like Miss Pomeroy.' '"Young woman" is better, perhaps,' he said, I thought with a smile. 'No lady,' I continued, 'when _I_ was young, would talk like that or act like that.' 'A sweet face shrinking under a cottage bonnet' (as Mr. MacGill used to say) 'is better than any tulip.' Sir Archibald smiled again, and seemed about to leave the room, but I asked him to be so good as to hold a skein of wool for me. I had brought down my knitting, so he sat down to hold it, looking rather annoyed. I continued firmly, 'There is a freedom--I should almost say a licence--about American women and their ways--' 'You have dropped your ball,' he said; and when he had returned it to me, he began to try to change the subject by remarking about the weather. 'It is,' I said, 'extremely cold, as it has always been ever since I came here, but, as I was saying, there is something about Miss Pomeroy's singing--' Here he bent his head so low that I was unable to see his face, and stretched my wool so tight that I fear my next socks will be spoiled; it was three-ply merino, and very soft.