“We’ll consult Watters!” Dandy said promptly. “This is a very strong-minded house--did you know? We have to give in to it dreadfully. It was simply hateful to our Halsted friends, especially the Tango ones--_you_ didn’t like them either, did you?--and now it has taken a dislike to the gardener we brought with us--drops slates on him in a dead calm, smokes him out of the potting-shed, and, if he tries to put up a ladder, simply humps its back and throws it off again! I’m afraid he’ll have to go. It’s bearing _us_, so far, but of course we’re very careful. Mother wanted to turn the old nursery into a linen-room, but the minute she suggested it a patch of damp appeared on the ceiling, though there hadn’t been any rain for weeks; so we had to give up the idea. It likes Wiggie tremendously, though. His bathwater is always hot, and his room’s always full of spiders, and stacks of little sunbeams follow him everywhere, patting him on the head.” Lanty laughed, and she felt quite disproportionately pleased. When he laughed, he looked years younger and a hundred times less worried. Then Harriet plunged into the lightened atmosphere with the pawing of a battle-horse. “I say--what about this matrimonial agency of yours? We’ve all been hearing about Francey Dockeray and young Lup. What did you say to the girl, and how did she take it?” The transient boyish look left his face. Dandy had drawn him into a quaint little world where tenants and their troubles had no place, but Harriet hauled him out again. “Aren’t you asking a bit too much?” he answered as amiably as he could. “You’re a Bluecaster tenant, too, remember! You’ll like _your_ sermon kept private, I fancy, if ever I come arbitrating in _your_ love-affairs!” It was said merely to chill her curiosity, but its actual effect was quite unaccountable. Harriet blushed--a slow, surprising blush from the rigid silk collar to the smooth hair--but she met his eye with fierce contempt in spite of it. “Oh, well, be an oyster, if you choose! _I_ shan’t die of it! You didn’t do much good, from all accounts. Have you seen Brack Holliday, lately? They say he’s raking up the old fuss about the Lugg.” The foreboding slid in and tapped him on the shoulder. He had not meant to come to Watters, but something had driven him; perhaps the same need of Hamer Shaw’s strength that he had realised yesterday. He had left the worry at Hamer’s door. Things were no different, he told himself. The Lugg held no threat. Brack had no case. But after that one bright moment of clear-eyed proportion, Harriet had whistled the fear back to his side.