There was another silence, and Ruth flushed again painfully, under the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes. “Where did you get that idea from?” asked Lady Condor. “I don’t know,” she answered, then amended her statement. “At least, I am not sure. But I believe it is true.” “I like it,” announced her Ladyship. “I like it enormously—yes—quite enormously. My poor dear Hartley! He was so keen on everything, so interested in _this_ old world. He didn’t want rest in heaven—at twenty-four. No—is it likely? And _les choses ne vont pas si vite_. It isn’t in the nature of things they should. Nature hasn’t great big gaps like that with no sense in them. I don’t know, my dear, if _I’m_ talking sense, but I know what I mean, and I’m sure it’s right. Yes—I like your idea.” “But that does not make it true. Some people can believe anything they want to. I can’t.” Mrs. Riversley moved impatiently from her seat. “All we know is, they are gone, so far as we are concerned; we cannot see or touch or hold them any more. Why do you discuss and imagine? They are gone.” Lady Condor shrank together at the words. The wonderful vitality which enabled her to defy age and satiety failed for the moment. She looked old and piteous. “Yes,” she said, “they are gone.” She looked at North. “And you can tell us nothing—with all your learning—with all your discoveries. And the parsons talk of faith and hope. Yes. But we have lost our first-borns.” North did not answer. He gathered her various belongings and put them in her lap. “There are one or two things I have to do to the car,” he said. The door opened on to a clamour of dogs. Sarah and Selina, shrill with welcome, barked in chorus around Larry, who appeared to have just arrived. “Now what the devil——” muttered North to himself, while Larry smote him with a feathered paw, and begged with wistful eyes for pardon.