“I—I beg your pardon!” he gulped. “I don’t know whether the mother has told you, but I’m rather an idiot at times, specially before I’ve had my breakfast. It’s—it’s a family failing.” He turned to explore among the hot-water dishes on the sideboard, rejoicing that she did not know—she did not know. His conversation for the rest of the meal was mildly insane, though the mother thought she had never seen her boy look half so handsome. How could any girl, least of all one of Miriam’s discernment, forbear to fall down and worship? But deeply Miriam was displeased. She had never been stared at in that fashion before, and promptly retired into her shell when Georgie announced that he had changed his mind about going to town, and would stay to play with Miss Lacy if she had nothing better to do. “Oh, but don’t let me throw you out. I’m at work. I’ve things to do all the morning.” “What possessed Georgie to behave so oddly?” the mother sighed to herself. “Miriam’s a bundle of feelings—like her mother.” “You compose—don’t you? Must be a fine thing to be able to do that. [‘Pig—oh, pig!’ thought Miriam.] I think I heard you singin’ when I came in last night after fishin’. All about a Sea of Dreams, wasn’t it? [Miriam shuddered to the core of the soul that afflicted her.] Awfully pretty song. How d’ you think of such things?” “You only composed the music, dear, didn’t you?” “The words too. I’m sure of it,” said Georgie, with a sparkling eye. No; she did not know. “Yeth; I wrote the words too.” Miriam spoke slowly, for she knew she lisped when she was nervous. “Now how _could_ you tell, Georgie?” said the mother, as delighted as though the youngest major in the army were ten years old, showing off before company. “I was sure of it, somehow. Oh, there are heaps of things about me, mummy, that you don’t understand. Looks as if it were goin’ to be a hot day—for England. Would you care for a ride this afternoon, Miss Lacy? We can start out after tea, if you’d like it.” Miriam could not in decency refuse, but any woman might see she was not filled with delight. “That will be very nice, if you take the Bassett Road. It will save me sending Martin down to the village,” said the mother, filling in gaps. Like all good managers, the mother had her one weakness—a mania for little strategies that should economise horses and vehicles. Her men-folk complained that she turned them into common carriers, and there was a legend in the family that she had once said to the pater on the morning of a meet: “If you _should_ kill near Bassett, dear, and if it isn’t too late, would you mind just popping over and matching me this?” “I knew that was coming. You’d never miss a chance, mother. If it’s a fish or a trunk I won’t.” Georgie laughed. “It’s only a duck. They can do it up very neatly at Mallett’s,” said the mother, simply. “You won’t mind, will you? We’ll have a scratch dinner at nine, because it’s so hot.”