'Ho, ho, a tiff!' whispered Mr. Jenkins with gloomy satisfaction; but Mrs. Moss turned on him very sharply. 'Stuff and nonsense!' she said; 'that's only to show she's not his slave. Why, that girl Charlotte Pidder--her ladyship's lady's-maid I suppose she fancies herself to be, though, from what I can make out, she can't neither do hairdressing nor dressmaking--was telling me this morning that they fairly dote on one another. There now, look at them! There's a pretty sight for you!' The walkers had come to a standstill, and Wantley taking his wife's hand, was trying to put it through his arm. 'I will not touch your sacred idol!' the eavesdroppers heard him say, 'In future I will always keep my real thoughts to myself.' 'Well, of all things! If the old lord could only hear them!' whispered Mrs. Moss, now really scandalized. 'It do seem a pity that such a nice young lady should be a Papist, and should try and make him a worshipper of idols, too.' And she turned away, for the two outside had quickened their steps, and were no longer within earshot. Cecily was still indignant. 'I only wish,' she said, her voice trembling a little, 'that you were right and I wrong. If only Penelope would marry Mr. Winfrith, and live happy ever after----' 'I did not promise you that,' said Wantley mildly, 'though, mind you, I think she would have a better chance with him than with anyone else.' 'But why should she marry at all?' cried Cecily. 'I quite understand why her mother would like her to do so, but surely, after all that happened----' Wantley shot a keen glance at his companion. 'Wonderful,' he murmured, 'the effect of even one night's good country air! You look much better, and even prettier, that you did yesterday.' Cecily smiled. Praise from him always sounded very sweetly in her ear, but, 'No, no!' she said, 'I won't let you off! Tell me why Penelope is not to remain as she is if she wishes to do so?' 'There are a hundred reasons, with most of which I certainly shall not trouble you; but the best of them all is that, however much she wishes it, she will not be able to do so.' 'And pray, why not?' asked Cecily. 'If Winfrith doesn't succeed in carrying her off, someone infinitely less worthy certainly will, and then all our troubles will begin again. Don't you see--or is it, as I sometimes suspect, that you won't see?'--his voice suddenly grew grave--'that Penelope is never content, never even approximately happy, unless she is'--he hesitated, then went on, avoiding as he spoke the candid eyes lifted up to his in such eager, perplexed inquiry--'well, unless she has some man, or, better still, several men, in play? Now, that sort of game--oh! but I mean it: with her it has always been a game, and a game only becomes absorbing and exciting when there is present the element of danger--generally ends in disaster.'