But Francey could not look at them as she, at the same age, would have looked. In the daughter’s case, education of a high class had sharpened the over-critical faculty of a fine intelligence until it held her emotional capacity captive. She saw them more as types than as human flesh and blood. She could neither be fascinated by the surface charm of the one, nor lose herself in the primitive strength of the other. Behind Brack’s refinement and overplayed ease she saw that he was restless, meretricious, lacking in stability. Around Lup’s steady sanity and simple faith she felt the rough shell of his ignorance. Lup saw as his fathers saw, loved as they loved, glimpsing life sharply but narrowly, not in the least with her wider if more dangerous vision. There were depths in her he would never fathom, finenesses he might respect but never grasp, shades of feeling making life vivid that he would always fail to seize. Brack could seize them, after his own fashion. She could feel him follow her mood almost as it turned its coat, where Lup would have been blundering up blind alleys, or sitting dumbly at corners, waiting her return. Her interest quickened, so that Brack flattered himself and shone. It was with real reluctance that he tore himself from his thrilling attitude of cock-o’-the-midden. “Guess I feel leaving Ladyford like leaving home!” he said sentimentally. “I saw mighty little of hearth and home for many a long year.” (The string of the exiled orphan-nephew twanged with fine effect.) “Lup, I sure envy you, hanging out just over the way! Why didn’t you hit the trail last year, old man? I’d have had Ninekyrkes, then, instead of Thweng. You’d have found me real neighbourly, Mrs. Dockeray!” The words were meant for Francey, with the tail of an eye on Lup, for he knew well enough the talk that was going; but if he expected to score he was disappointed. “Folk have it you’re feared of a marsh-farm,” the other said indifferently. “Over much water about--sets you dreaming-like! It’s only a dowly sort of a night. You’d best to see to your lamps. I’ll fix yon far gate for you. It’s a trick o’ swinging.” He rose and went out, but not before he heard Brack beg the girl for a meeting at the café in Witham, with a ride in the car to follow. As a preliminary canter, he cajoled her into letting him run her to the far gate, just to show he was to be trusted. She came, to his surprise, but when he would have taken her hand in farewell, she had already melted into shadow behind the car, and the gate, under Lup’s ruthless propulsion, was closing steadily upon him. To save his wings he cleared quickly, his fetich of gentility forcing him to shout a cheerful gratitude he was very far from feeling. Well, she would drive with him, yet; though after a fashion of which he could not dream.