Mrs. Wyburn thought that Miss Westbury would say anything to any one, and she shrewdly suspected that Millie was probably the one gleam of amusement in poor old Dr. Gribling's dreary round. However, she waved the eminent physician aside and said-- "About Valentia. She and Romer have gone down to the country, you know." "Oh, indeed! Quite early to go. Very nice. Have they a large party there, do you know? The Green Gate is such a charming place--so picturesque." "Have you ever seen it?" Mrs. Wyburn asked. "Only in the _Daily Mail_--I mean accounts of week-ends there, and that sort of thing. But I believe it's quite charming. It seems almost a pity though, doesn't it, at the end of the season to begin the same frivolities and gaieties all over again. I wonder they don't take a little rest." "I believe they are resting. Valentia wrote to me that no one was staying there at all, except, of course, Daphne." "And Harry de Freyne?" "Yes, and Mr. de Freyne." "Strange," said Miss Westbury comfortably. "Curious that extraordinary infatuation of your--son for this young man. But he's a very charming man, isn't he? Most agreeable?" "He's not absolutely unpleasant." "I suppose he brightens them up--amuses them? Probably he has very high spirits. Perhaps he has the _jar de veev_." Miss Westbury had a private pronunciation of foreign expressions all her own. "It is unfortunate, but do you know one often sees that in unprincipled people, Isabella." "He knows that he's not quite a gentleman, and is trying to laugh it off," said Mrs. Wyburn. "Does he really? Dear, dear--what a sad thing!--and yet he certainly _ought_ to be a gentleman, you know. On his mother's side he is connected with the----" "That's not the point," snapped Mrs. Wyburn. "And of course I don't mean to say that--outwardly--he's not. His manner and appearance are distinguished. It's the soul that's vulgar." "Ah, I see! You mean you're afraid he isn't one of _nature's_ gentlemen?" "Nature? How do you mean? He has nothing to do with nature. He's a man about town." "Oh, I beg your pardon--I understood he was an artist. And sometimes, you know, artists are extremely fond of nature; in fact, far _too_ fond." "I believe all that painting is only done to throw dust in people's eyes--an excuse for idleness. Candidly, I don't like studios; I don't think they're respectable." "I know what you mean; but still, after all"--Miss Westbury made a feeble attempt at a good-natured defence--"after all, if they all like it--I mean to say, if they're all so happy, why should we----" "I doubt if my son is happy." "Oh, really, really? Do you think he's _ever noticed anything?_ Isn't he devoted to Harry de Freyne?" "Of course he hates him like poison," replied the mother. Miss Westbury started in delighted horror, and replied sharply, "How do you know that? Did he tell you?" "Tell me! He would never tell me. Besides, he couldn't tell me--he doesn't know it." "And how do you know it?"