One reason certainly why I was content, was Theresa herself. She was a constant study to me, and I could not for a long time obtain any consistent idea of her. She was not a this or a that or the other. She could not be summarily dismissed into any ordinary classification. At first I was sure she was hard, but I found by the merest accident that nearly all her earnings were given with utmost secrecy to support a couple of poor relatives. Then I thought her self-conscious, but this, when I came to think upon it, seemed a mere word. She was one of those women, and very rare they are, who deal in ideas, and reflectiveness must be self-conscious. At times she appeared passionless, so completely did her intellect dominate, and so superior was she to all the little arts and weaknesses of women; but this was a criticism she contradicted continually. There was very little society at the Wollastons’, but occasionally a few friends called. One evening there was a little party, and the conversation flagged. Theresa said that it was a great mistake to bring people together with nothing special to do but talk. Nothing is more tedious than to be in a company assembled for no particular reason, and every host, if he asks more than two persons at the outside, ought to provide some entertainment. Talking is worth nothing unless it is perfectly spontaneous, and it cannot be spontaneous if there are sudden and blank silences, and nobody can think of a fresh departure. The master of the house is bound to do something. He ought to hire a Punch and Judy show, or get up a dance. This spice of bitterness and flavour of rudeness was altogether characteristic of Theresa, and somebody resented it by reminding her that _she_ was the hostess. “Of course,” she replied, “that is why I said it: what shall I do?” One of her gifts was memory, and her friends cried out at once that she should recite something. She hesitated a little, and then throwing herself back in her chair, began _The Lass of Lochroyan_. At first she was rather diffident, but she gathered strength as she went on. There is a passage in the middle of the poem in which Lord Gregory’s cruel mother pretends she is Lord Gregory, and refuses to recognise his former love, Annie of Lochroyan, as she stands outside his tower. The mother calls to Annie from the inside— “Gin thou be Annie of Lochroyan (As I trow thou binna she), Now tell me some of the love tokèns That passed between thee and me.” “Oh, dinna ye mind, Lord Gregory, As we sat at the wine, We changed the rings frae our fingers, And I can show thee thine? “Oh, yours was gude, and gude enough, But aye the best was mine; For yours was o’ the gude red gowd, _But mine o’ the diamond fine_.”