Mrs. Brutt had an eye to economy. Mr. Stirling had named no time-limit. He suggested the spending of a weekly amount, liberal enough to cover, not only Doris's expenses, but with care part of Mrs. Brutt's also. She did not scruple to use it thus; and he certainly had said: "Pray consider it your own, to be employed as you think best." These words she construed into full permission. The less spent upon excursions, the more for herself. Mrs. Brutt saw this plainly. Mr. Stirling had not seen it. His one object had been, if possible, to prolong the absence of both travellers, until their new-found interest in Wyldd's Farm should have died a natural death. Another unexpected factor arose to interfere with the girl's enjoyment; and this was—jealousy! Mrs. Brutt was never happy to find herself in the position of Number Two. She expected always to be first; always to be the centre of attraction. She had quite left off praising Doris's face and figure, and had ceased to talk of her coming successes. It dawned early upon the latter that, if she wished for peace, she must refrain from competing with the elder lady. And Doris knew that she had good looks, knew that she could win the liking of others. If, when a chance occurred, she let herself go, the instant result was—neglect of Mrs. Brutt. And Mrs. Brutt's displeasure on those occasions was plainly shown. Doris, secretly indignant, remembered again her indebtedness, felt that she owed her presence there to Mrs. Brutt, and in silent vexation drew back. Three especially dull days were ending. A middle-aged lawyer, on Mrs. Brutt's other side, had taken up her whole attention at meals. Doris, with Germans in front and Spaniards at her side, was condemned to silence. It never seemed to occur to her companion that she might feel neglected. If the lawyer would have preferred speech with the pretty girl, two seats off—as was only natural—he was allowed no chance. Three days of this; and as Doris leant out of the window, peeping at the people below, all happy and chattering one with another, she had an unwonted sensation of loneliness. Her thoughts turned homeward, with a longing to be there. She pictured lovingly the old father, saying little, but ever on the look-out for his child; and the somewhat managing mother who, though at times a little trying, made her chief aim in life—this daughter. Never till now had Doris realised the sweetness of being always wanted, always thought of, always cared for, always welcome. "I suppose it will be the same thing again this evening," she thought, observing that only ten minutes remained before the hour for table d'hôte. "I wish I could talk German. That is rather a nice-looking German lady opposite me. But I can't make out a single word she says. No hope of any change yet, I'm afraid."