“No; she wouldn’t. I am sure your father said so, though. My dear boy, don’t look so shocked. Your father and I hated each other. He said so, I said so, I say so; say so too. Then we shall start fair.—Just a cocoanut cake.—Agnes, don’t you agree that it’s always best to speak out?” “Oh, rather, Mrs. Failing. But I’m shockingly straightforward.” “So am I,” said the lady. “I like to get down to the bedrock.—Hullo! Slippers? Slippers in the drawingroom?” A young man had come in silently. Agnes observed with a feeling of regret that he had not shaved. Rickie, after a moment’s hesitation, remembered who it was, and shook hands with him. “You’ve grown since I saw you last.” He showed his teeth amiably. “How long was that?” asked Mrs. Failing. “Three years, wasn’t it? Came over from the Ansells—friends.” “How disgraceful, Rickie! Why don’t you come and see me oftener?” He could not retort that she never asked him. “Agnes will make you come. Oh, let me introduce—Mr. Wonham—Miss Pembroke.” “I am deputy hostess,” said Agnes. “May I give you some tea?” “Thank you, but I have had a little beer.” “It is one of the shepherds,” said Mrs. Failing, in low tones. Agnes smiled rather wildly. Mrs. Lewin had warned her that Cadover was an extraordinary place, and that one must never be astonished at anything. A shepherd in the drawing-room! No harm. Still one ought to know whether it was a shepherd or not. At all events he was in gentleman’s clothing. She was anxious not to start with a blunder, and therefore did not talk to the young fellow, but tried to gather what he was from the demeanour of Rickie. “I am sure, Mrs. Failing, that you need not talk of ‘making’ people come to Cadover. There will be no difficulty, I should say.” “Thank you, my dear. Do you know who once said those exact words to me?” “Who?” “Rickie’s mother.” “Did she really?” “My sister-in-law was a dear. You will have heard Rickie’s praises, but now you must hear mine. I never knew a woman who was so unselfish and yet had such capacities for life.” “Does one generally exclude the other?” asked Rickie. “Unselfish people, as a rule, are deathly dull. They have no colour. They think of other people because it is easier. They give money because they are too stupid or too idle to spend it properly on themselves. That was the beauty of your mother—she gave away, but she also spent on herself, or tried to.” The light faded out of the drawing-room, in spite of it being September and only half-past six. From her low chair Agnes could see the trees by the drive, black against a blackening sky. That drive was half a mile long, and she was praising its gravelled surface when Rickie called in a voice of alarm, “I say, when did our train arrive?” “Four-six.” “I said so.” “It arrived at four-six on the time-table,” said Mr. Wonham. “I want to know when it got to the station?” “I tell you again it was punctual. I tell you I looked at my watch. I can do no more.”