"You're very quiet, Val," remarked Daphne, as they flew along in the motor on their way to call on the Prebendary's wife at The Angles. Both sisters wore little cottage bonnets, blue motor-veils, and large loose white coats with high collars. "How can I talk when we're exceeding the speed limit?" said Valentia. "You usually do. Is anything the matter?" "No, nothing at all.... Harry's been horrid lately." "I suppose he _is_ occasionally." "No, he's not. He's got the artistic temperament, and of course he can't always be the same, poor dear." "What a pity one can't be an artist without having the artistic temperament! It always seems to mean being late for meals, and losing your temper, or being amusing when every one wants to go to bed." "As a matter of fact," said Valentia, "I never knew any one with less of it than Harry. There isn't a more hard-headed business man in the world in his way, though he _has_ read poetry and plays the piano sometimes, and paints. He is an artist too ... but--well, not in any of the recognised arts.... I hear Miss Luscombe and Rathbone--I mean Mr. and Mrs. Rathbone--have gone to Oberammergau for their honeymoon." "Oh! Is that the latest thing to do?" "Of course not, Daphne, but she thinks it is. Miss Luscombe has spent her life in trying to catch the last omnibus and always just missing it, and she's not going to leave off now just because she happens to be married. Here we are!" The Prebendary's wife received them very graciously. Her waist looked longer than ever, and her skirt seemed more than usually abnormal in width. She did all that she could to entertain them. She showed them her son Garstin's map of Buckinghamshire, and then said-- "I'll send for Mr. Stoendyck. He's upstairs inventing. You can't _think_ how clever he is and how hard he works. It's really wonderful! We often leave him alone for hours to think things out, and sometimes he plays sonatas; he says it refreshes him. He really is an extraordinary man." Mr. Stoendyck came in, looking very martial and scientific and pleased with himself, as though he had just invented gunpowder. Mrs. Campbell began as usual to talk baby language, and play a kind of Dumb Crambo at him. He never seemed able to guess the word. "I hope we haven't interrupted you in your studies," said Val politely. "She say she ope she not interrupt. Work, you know. Oeuvre--Arbeit." "I was just amusing myself with the very witty paper from Germany, _Kladderadatsch_. It is very funny," he said. "It sounds funny," said Val sympathetically. "What I find in England is that you're all wonderfully serious, wonderfully courteous, wonderfully kind"--he bowed to his hostess; "but, you'll excuse my saying so, I don't find enough wit or lightness for my temperament. For humour I have to go to Belgium or Germany." He spoke with intense solemnity. Mrs. Campbell now began to translate him even to himself.