“Oh, quite. I’ve a very dear friend of mine that I want you to know. She couldn’t come with the house so full, because she’s an invalid, and she was away when you first came. She’s a Mrs. Lacy.” “Lacy! I don’t remember the name about here.” “No; they came after you went to India—from Oxford. Her husband died there, and she lost some money, I believe. They bought The Firs on the Bassett Road. She’s a very sweet woman, and we’re very fond of them both.” “She’s a widow, didn’t you say?” “She has a daughter. Surely I said so, dear?” “Does she fall into trout-ponds, and gas and giggle, and ‘Oh, Major Cottah!’ and all that sort of thing?” “No, indeed. She’s a very quiet girl, and very musical. She always came over here with her music-books—composing, you know; and she generally works all day, so you won’t—” “’Talking about Miriam?” said the pater, coming up. The mother edged toward him within elbow-reach. There was no finesse about Georgie’s father. “Oh, Miriam’s a dear girl. Plays beautifully. Rides beautifully, too. She’s a regular pet of the household. Used to call me—” The elbow went home, and ignorant but obedient always, the pater shut himself off. “What used she to call you, sir?” “All sorts of pet names. I’m very fond of Miriam.” “Sounds Jewish—Miriam.” “Jew! You’ll be calling yourself a Jew next. She’s one of the Herefordshire Lacys. When her aunt dies—” Again the elbow. “Oh, you won’t see anything of her, Georgie. She’s busy with her music or her mother all day. Besides, you’re going up to town tomorrow, aren’t you? I thought you said something about an Institute meeting?” The mother spoke. “Go up to town _now!_ What nonsense!” Once more the pater was shut off. “I had some idea of it, but I’m not quite sure,” said the son of the house. Why did the mother try to get him away because a musical girl and her invalid parent were expected? He did not approve of unknown females calling his father pet names. He would observe these pushing persons who had been only seven years in the county. All of which the delighted mother read in his countenance, herself keeping an air of sweet disinterestedness. “They’ll be here this evening for dinner. I’m sending the carriage over for them, and they won’t stay more than a week.” “Perhaps I shall go up to town. I don’t quite know yet.” Georgie moved away irresolutely. There was a lecture at the United Services Institute on the supply of ammunition in the field, and the one man whose theories most irritated Major Cottar would deliver it. A heated discussion was sure to follow, and perhaps he might find himself moved to speak. He took his rod that afternoon and went down to thrash it out among the trout. “Good sport, dear!” said the mother, from the terrace.