“I have now secured such evidence as should warrant our instituting a suit. I've written your ward to that effect, and am awaiting her instructions. Unfortunately, we have no act of cruelty, and I've been obliged to draw her attention to the fact that, should her husband defend the suit, it will be very difficult to get the Court to accept their separation in the light of desertion on his part--difficult indeed, even if he doesn't defend the suit. In divorce cases one has to remember that what has to be kept out is often more important than what has to be got in, and it would be useful to know, therefore, whether there is likelihood of opposition. I do not advise any direct approaching of the husband, but if you are possessed of the information you might let me know. I hate humbug, my dear Vigil, and I hate anything underhand, but divorce is always a dirty business, and while the law is shaped as at present, and the linen washed in public, it will remain impossible for anyone, guilty or innocent, and even for us lawyers, to avoid soiling our hands in one way or another. I regret it as much as you do. “There is a new man writing verse in the Tertiary, some of it quite first-rate. You might look at the last number. My blossom this year is magnificent. “With kind regards, I am, “Very sincerely yours, “EDMUND PARAMOR. “Gregory Vigil, Esq.” Mrs. Pendyce dropped the letter in her lap, and looked at her cousin. “He was at Harrow with Horace. I do like him. He is one of the very nicest men I know.” It was clear that she was trying to gain time. Gregory began pacing up and down. “Paramor is a man for whom I have the highest respect. I would trust him before anyone.” It was clear that he, too, was trying to gain time. “Oh, mind my daffodils, please!” Gregory went down on his knees, and raised the bloom that he had trodden on. He then offered it to Mrs. Pendyce. The action was one to which she was so unaccustomed that it struck her as slightly ridiculous. “My dear Grig, you'll get rheumatism, and spoil that nice suit; the grass comes off so terribly!” Gregory got up, and looked shamefacedly at his knees. “The knee is not what it used to be,” he said. Mrs. Pendyce smiled. “You should keep your knees for Helen Bellow, Grig. I was always five years older than you.” Gregory rumpled up his hair. “Kneeling's out of fashion, but I thought in the country you wouldn't mind!” “You don't notice things, dear Grig. In the country it's still more out of fashion. You wouldn't find a woman within thirty miles of here who would like a man to kneel to her. We've lost the habit. She would think she was being made fun of. We soon grow out of vanity!” “In London,” said Gregory, “I hear all women intend to be men; but in the country I thought----” “In the country, Grig, all women would like to be men, but they don't dare to try. They trot behind.” As if she had been guilty of thoughts too insightful, Mrs. Pendyce blushed. Gregory broke out suddenly: