Now curiosity was the most prominent trait in Mr. Fothersley’s funny little character, and it was the naked and unashamed curiosity of the small child. It might almost be looked on as a virtue turned inside out, so real and keen was his interest in his neighbors’ affairs, an interest often followed by sympathy and help. “Telegraphing to North!” he exclaimed. “What about?” No inhabitant of any length of time would have been in the least astonished, but Ruth, for a moment or two taken thoroughly aback, simply stared at him. Then, somewhat late in the day, it began to dawn on her that her telegram to Roger North might possibly demand an explanation, and one she had no intentions of giving. “Telegraphing to North? What about?” repeated Mr. Fothersley, his little pink face beaming with kindly interest. The whole truth being out of the question, there was nothing for it but as much as possible. “I want to see him to ask his opinion on a matter of importance,” said Ruth. Astonishment mingled with the curiosity on Mr. Fothersley’s speaking countenance. Many things flashed through his mind in the minute while he and Ruth again stared at each other, the most prominent being the tongue of the Postmistress and Mrs. North’s fiery jealousy. Mr. Fothersley could remember terrible times, when it had been aroused by lesser matters than this telegram, aroused to such an extent that all Mentmore had become aware of it, and much unnecessary dirty linen washed in public before the storm subsided. North himself on these occasions was, in Mr. Fothersley’s language, difficult, most difficult. He either teased his wife unmercifully, or lost his temper and used bad language. The whole affair was always, again in Mr. Fothersley’s language, “regrettable, most regrettable,” while the groundwork of the whole matter was, that women bored North far more than they ever amused him, so that if he did talk to one it was noticeable. It was quite evident to Mr. Fothersley that Miss Seer was wholly unconscious of anything unusual in her action. This surprised him, for he had understood she had been a companion, and a companion’s knowledge of such things, as a rule, passes belief. Ruth made a movement to pass on, the fatal document in her hand. But it was one of those moments when Mr. Fothersley was supreme. “My dear lady,” he exclaimed, “I am going to Westwood so soon as I have deposited my little offering on your doorstep. Allow me to take the message for you.” With a deft movement the paper was in his possession, was neatly folded and placed in safety in his waistcoat pocket. His little plump figure turned, plainly prepared to escort her back to Thorpe. “The telegram will explain itself?” he asked, “or shall I give any message?” “I want to consult him about some happenings on the farm,” answered Ruth. “Things I should like to talk over with him with as little delay as possible. Mr. North has been very kind, and, I think takes a real interest in Thorpe.”