"Taking plenty of fresh air and exercise, I suppose"--Aunt Beatrice smiled kindly on her niece--"I'm afraid I've kept you from your hockey this afternoon, Milly." "Oh no, Aunt Beatrice, certainly not," replied Milly, with the extreme courtesy of nervousness. "I never play hockey now." Lady Thomson turned to the Head with a shade of triumph in her satisfaction. "There, Polly! What did I tell you? I was sure there was something else at the bottom of it. Steady work, methodically done, never hurt anybody. But of course if she's given up exercise, her liver or something was bound to get out of order." "No, really, I take lots of exercise," interposed Milly; "only I don't care for hockey, it's such a horrid, rough, dirty game; don't you think so? And Miss Walker got a front tooth broken last winter." Lady Thomson looked at her in a surprised way. "Well, if you've not been playing hockey, what exercise have you been taking?" "Walks," replied Milly, feebly, feeling herself on the wrong track; "I go walks with Ti--with Flora Timson when she has time." Aunt Beatrice looked at the matter judicially. "Of course, games are best for the physique. Look at men. Still, walking will do, if one takes proper walks. I hope Flora Timson takes you good long walks." "Indeed she does!" cried Milly. "Immense! She walks a dreadful pace, and we get over stiles and things." "Immense is a little vague. How far do you go on an average?" Mildred's notions of distance were vague. "Quite two miles, I'm sure," she responded, cheerfully. Aunt Beatrice made no comment. She looked steadily and scrutinizingly at her niece, and in a kind but deepened voice told her to go up to her room, whither she, Lady Thomson, would follow in a few minutes, just to see how the Mantegnas looked now they were framed. As soon as the door had closed behind Mildred, she turned to Miss Burt. "You're right, in a way, Polly, after all. There is something odd about Milly, but I think it's affectation. Did you hear her answer? Two miles! When to my knowledge she can easily walk ten." Meantime, Mildred mounted slowly to her room. She had tidied it under Tims's instructions and had nothing to do but to sit down and think until Lady Thomson's masculine step was heard outside her door. Aunt Beatrice came in and laid aside her hat and cloak, showing a dress of rough gray tweed, and short--so far a tribute to the practical--but otherwise made on some awkward artistic or hygienic principle. Her glossy brown hair was brushed back and twisted tight, as Milly's used to be, but with different effect, because of its heaviness and length. "Why have you crammed up one of your windows with a dressing-glass?" asked Aunt Beatrice, putting a picture straight. "Because I can't see myself in that dark corner," returned Mildred, demurely meek, but waiting her opportunity.