Coryston walked up the garden path, looking about him suspiciously. At sight of Marion he took off his cap; she gave him her hand, and he sat down beside her. "Nobody else about? What a blessing!" She looked at him with mild reproach. "My father and the Chancellor are gone for a walk. Enid is not yet down." "Why? She is perfectly well. If she were a workman's wife and had to get up at six o'clock, get his breakfast and wash the children, it would do her a world of good." "How do you know? You are always judging people, and it helps nothing." "Yes, it does. One must form opinions--or burst. I can tell you, I judged Glenwilliam last night, as I sat listening to him." "Father thought it hardly one of his best speeches," said Marion, cautiously. "Sheer wallowing claptrap, wasn't it! I was ashamed of him, and sick of Liberalism, as I sat there. I'll go and join the Primrose League." Marion lifted her blue eyes and laughed--with her finger on her lip. "Hush! She might hear." She pointed to the half-open window on the first floor. "And a good thing too," growled Coryston. "She adores him--and makes him worse. Why can't he _work_ at these things--or why can't his secretaries prime him decently! He makes blunders that would disgrace an undergraduate--and doesn't care a rap--so long as a hall-full of fools cheer him." "You usen't to talk like this!" "No--because I had illusions," was the sharp reply. "Glenwilliam was one of them. Land!--what does he know about land?--what does a miner--who won't learn!--know about farming? Why, that man--that fellow, John Betts"--he pointed to the Hoddon Grey woods on the edge of the plain--"whom the Newburys are driving out of his job, because he picked a woman out of the dirt--just like these Christians!--John Betts knows more about land in his little finger than Glenwilliam's whole body! Yet, if you saw them together, you'd see Glenwilliam patronizing and browbeating him, and Betts not allowed a look in. I'm sick of it! I'm off to Canada with Betts." Marion looked up. "I thought it was to be the Primrose League." "You like catching me out," said Coryston, grimly. "But I assure you I'm pretty downhearted." "You expect too much," said Marion, softly, distressed as she spoke, to notice his frayed collar and cuffs, and the tear in his coat pocket. "And," she added, firmly, "you should make Mrs. Potifer mend your coat." "She's another disillusion. She's idle and dirty. And Potifer never does a stroke of work if he can help it. Moral--don't bother your head about martyrs. There's generally some excellent reason for martyrizing them." He broke off--looking at her with a clouded brow. "Marion!" She turned with a start, the color flooding her plain, pleasant face. "Yes, Lord Coryston!" "If you're so critical of my clothes, why don't you come and look after them and me?" She gasped--then recovered herself. "I've never been asked," she said, quietly.