She walked confidently across the meadow, bowing to the workmen as they raised their hats. Her languor had passed, and with it her suggestion of "tone." She was the same crude, unsophisticated person that Harcourt had picked out of Ireland--beautiful and ludicrous in the extreme, and--if you go in for pathos--extremely pathetic. I saw them meet, and soon she was hanging on his arm. The motion of his hand explained to her the construction of bridges. Twice she interrupted him: he had to explain everything again. Then she got in her word, and what followed was a good deal better than a play. Their two little figures parted and met and parted again, she gesticulating, he most pompous and calm. She pleaded, she argued and--if satire can carry half a mile--she tried to be satirical. To enforce one of her childish points she made two steps back. Splash! She was floundering in the little stream. That was the _dénouement_ of the comedy. Harcourt rescued her, while the workmen crowded round in an agitated chorus. She was wet quite as far as her knees, and muddy over her ankles. In this state she was conduced towards me, and in time I began to hear words; "Influenza--a slight immersion--clothes are of no consequence beside health--pray, dearest, don't worry--yes, it must have been a shock--bed! bed! I insist on bed! Promise? Good girl. Up the steps to bed then." They parted on the lawn, and she came obediently up the steps. Her face was full of terror and bewilderment. "So you've had a wetting, Miss Beaumont!" "Wetting? Oh, yes. But, Mr. Inskip--I don't understand: I've failed." I expressed surprise. "Mr. Ford is to go--at once. I've failed." "I'm sorry." "I've failed with Harcourt. He's offended. He won't laugh. He won't let me do what I want. Latin and Greek began it: I wanted to know about gods and heroes and he wouldn't let me: then I wanted no fence round Other Kingdom and no bridge and no path--and look! Now I ask that Mr. Ford, who has done nothing, sha'n't be punished for it--and he is to go away for ever." "Impertinence is not 'nothing,' Miss Beaumont." For I must keep in with Harcourt. "Impertinence is nothing!" she cried. "It doesn't exist. It's a sham, like 'claims' and 'position' and 'rights.' It's part of the great dream." "What 'great dream'?" I asked, trying not to smile. "Tell Mr. Ford--here comes Harcourt; I must go to bed. Give my love to Mr. Ford, and tell him 'to guess.' I shall never see him again, and I won't stand it. Tell him to guess. I am sorry I called him a cry-baby. He was not crying like a baby. He was crying like a grown-up person, and now I have grown up too." I judged it right to repeat this conversation to my employer. IV