Now, Lady Swindon was not really more malicious than most people, in spite of her weakness for her friends' weaknesses, and it was in the main her truly London desire to be always well up in current scandals, and know the details of all that may perhaps soon be beginning to be whispered, that led her to "pump" (if a word that implies effort may be used about so easy a process) Theodosia on this subject. Thurso's long absence in Scotland, to begin with, had seemed to her queer, and to require explanation. It did not seem likely, somehow, that he had gone there after a woman, but, on the other hand, she personally thought it improbable that he had really gone to look after fever-stricken tenants. As a matter of fact, of course he had done so, but the truth usually escapes these earnest inquirers, especially if it is quite simple and straightforward. But here was a fresh fact: he had been crazy to get to the chemist's and had raced home. She felt she had guessed. "He used to have dreadful headaches," she observed. "Perhaps he had one this afternoon." "He didn't seem that way," said Theodosia, "and I know about headaches, because Silas used to have them, arising from faulty digestion, to which he is a martyr. He took opium for them." "Yes?" said Lady Swindon. "That always cured him. Why, here's Count Villars. Count Villars, I haven't set eyes on you since lunch, and I feel bad because you are neglecting me. Let me present you to Lady Swindon." Villars bowed. "I think we were introduced about twelve years ago," he observed. "How are you, Lady Swindon? You have come down the river from your charming Cookham?" Lady Swindon got up, turning her back on Theodosia, for whom she had no further use. "Yes, and I am just going back there. How clever of you to remember where we live! Will you take me to my boat? Let us walk round the garden first. It is charming to see you again." They strolled a few yards down the path between the two tall herbaceous borders, while she rapidly ran over in her mind what information she wanted from him. It was very quickly done. "And you are staying here?" she asked. "How do you find Catherine? I am sure you walked together last night after dinner, and joined old memories onto the present." Lady Swindon was colossal in her impertinence. It struck Villars afresh after his long absence from England how very ill-bred a well-bred Englishwoman can be. But he was more than a match for her. "Ah, my dear lady," he said, "we found that the two needed no link. We neither of us have that faculty, which, no doubt, is often convenient, of forgetting old friends. As always, I adore her; as always, she receives my adoration from her infinite height. The Madonna still smiles on her worshipper. He asks no more." It was admirably done, for it told her nothing. She tried again. "Indeed? I thought you had once asked more," she said. "We all supposed so."