“I do want a little chat if possible, Marion,” said Mr. Fothersley. He retrieved a scarf which had floated suddenly across his path, with the skill born of long practice. “Yes, I will keep it in case you feel cold.” He folded it in a neat square so that it could go into his pocket without damage to either scarf or pocket, and held the back of her chair while she fitted herself into it. “A footstool? Thank you, Arthur. I will say for Nita, she understands the art of making her guests comfortable. Now at the Howles’ yesterday I had a chair nearly impossible to get into and quite impossible to get out of! But where were we? Oh yes—you have got something you want to tell me. I always know by your walk.” Mr. Fothersley was a little vexed. “I cannot see how it can possibly affect my walk, Marion.” “It is odd, isn’t it?” said her Ladyship briskly. “It is just like my dear father. A piece of news was written all over him until he got rid of it. I remember when poor George Somerville shot himself—my dear mother and I were sitting on the terrace, and we saw my father coming up from the village—quite a long way off—you could not distinguish a feature—but we knew at once he was bringing news—news of importance. But where were we?” She stopped suddenly and looked at him with the smile which had turned the heads of half the gilded youth of fifty years ago. “I am a garrulous old woman, my dear Arthur. You are anxious about something, and here am I worrying you with my silly reminiscences—yes—now what is it? Tell me all about it, and we will see what can be done.” “I am certainly perturbed,” said Mr. Fothersley. He smoothed down his delicate grey waistcoat and settled himself back in his chair. “I am afraid there is no doubt Nita is becoming jealous of Miss Seer.” “Good heavens! I would as soon suspect that blue iris!” “Quite so! Quite so! But you know what Nita is about these things. And, unfortunately, it appears that Roger has been over to Thorpe once or twice alone lately.” “Perfectly natural,” said her Ladyship judicially. “He would be interested in the farm for Dick’s sake. I like to go there myself. She hasn’t spoilt the place.” “Nita called her ‘that woman’ to me just now,” said Mr. Fothersley solemnly. Lady Condor raised her hand. “That settles it, of course! And now, dear Arthur, what is to be done? We really cannot have one of those dreadful performances that have unfortunately occurred in the past!” “I really don’t know,” said Mr. Fothersley. He was divided between excitement and distress. “It is quite useless to talk to either of them. Nita generally consults me, but she listens neither to reason nor advice. And Roger only laughs or loses his temper.” “Yes,” agreed Lady Condor. “I think it depends on the state of his liver. And as for poor Nita listening to reason on that subject—well—as you say!” “If only she would not tell everybody it would not be so terrible.”