Mortimer is here a lot, but is somewhat fretful. The Trans-Euphratic, it seems, is fractious, or teething, or something, and Beaufort Chance has been nasty in the House--notably nasty and rather able. (Do you trace any private history?) However, I daresay you hear enough about the Trans-Euphratic at home. It buzzes about here, mingling soothingly with the approaching flower show and a calamity that has happened to a pedigree cow. Never mind details of any of them! Sir Stapleton was indiscreet to me, but it stops there, if you please. How sweet the country is in a real English home! But sometimes we talk of the Past--and the P is large. There is a thank-heavenly atmosphere of pronounced density about Lady B.--quite sincere, I believe; she has realised that flightiness almost effected an entry into the family! Mortimer says little--deep feelings again. In my opinion it has done him some little good--which we and Audrey hope speedily to destroy. (Oh, that child! The perfection of English girlhood, Sarah; no less, believe me!) My lord is more communicative--to me. I believe he likes to talk about it. In fact Trix made some impression there; possibly there is a regret hidden somewhere in his circumference. He took me round the place yesterday, and showed me the scene of the flight. I should think going to Waterloo must give one something of the same feeling--if one could be conducted by a wounded hero of the fight. This was the conversation that passed--or something like it:-- _Lord B._: She looked almost like a ghost. _Myself_: Heavens, Lord B.! _Lord B._ (_inserting spud in ground_): This was the very spot--the SPOT! _Myself_: You surprise me! _Lord B._: I felt certain that something unusual was occurring. _Myself_: Did that strike you at once? _Lord B._: Almost, Viola--I say, almost--at once. She came up. I remonstrated. My words do not remain in my memory. _Myself_: Moments of excitement---- _Lord B._: But I remonstrated, Viola. _Myself_: And she pushed you away? _Lord B._: She did--and ran along the path here--following this path to that gate---- _Myself_ (_incredulously, however one's supposed to show that_): That very gate, Lord B.? _Lord B._: It's been painted since, but that is the gate, Viola. _Myself_: Fancy! (There isn't any other gate, you know; so, unless Trix had taken the fence in a flying leap, one doesn't see what she could have done.) _Lord B._: Yes, that gate. She ran through it and along that road---- _Myself_ (_distrustfully_): That road, Lord B.? _Lord B._ (_firmly_): That road, Viola. She twisted her veil about her face, caught up her skirts---- _Myself_: ! ! ! ! ! _Lord B._: And ran away (_impressively_) towards the station, Viola!