“Poor dear Dick! He did teach the children such queer things,” said Lady Condor, allowing herself to be assisted out of her comfortable chair by the fire without protest. “But who was it learnt to milk? Some one quite celebrated. Was it Marie Antoinette? Or was it Queen Elizabeth? It must be just milking time; let us go, dear Violet, and see you milk. It will interest us so much,” she added, with that amazing tact which no one except those who knew her best ever realized. Violet followed them into the garden without speaking. Her eyes had a curious vacant look; she moved like a person walking in her sleep. Lady Condor took Ruth’s arm and dropped behind the others on the way to the farmyard. “My dear,” she said, “I don’t know what’s the matter, but I see you wish to create a diversion. Poor dear Violet, I have never heard her talk such nonsense before. Rather unpleasant nonsense too, wasn’t it? Can it be she has fallen in love with one of those dreadful Socialist creatures? I believe they can sometimes be quite attractive, and the young women of the present day are so _outré_, you never know who or what they will take up with. Besides, I believe they wash nowadays. The Socialists I mean, of course. In my day they thought it showed independence to appear dirty and without any manners. So funny, was it not? But I met one the other day who was charming. Quite good looking and well dressed, even his boots. Or, let me see, was he a Theosophist? There are so many ‘ists’ now, it is difficult not to get them mixed up. But where was I? Oh yes—dear Violet! Where can she have got those queer ideas from? I do hope she is not attracted by some ‘ist.’ I so often notice that when a woman gets queer opinions there is either a man, or the want of a man, at the bottom of it. And it cannot be the latter with dear Violet. Ah, now here we are. Don’t the dear things look pretty? And you have such a lovely milking shed for them. Violet, you really must show me how you milk. I should like to begin myself. But don’t you have to lean your head against the cow?—and it would ruin my dahlias.” “Come and see the real dahlias instead,” said Violet, laughing. “Yours are the most wonderful imitation I have ever seen. I don’t believe you could tell them from the real ones. Where did you get them? Madame Elsa?” Her voice and manner were wholly natural again. North looked palpably relieved, but when his daughter had disappeared with Lady Condor towards the flower garden he turned anxiously to Ruth. “Does she often talk like that?” he asked. “It is so unlike her—so absolutely unlike—” He stopped, his eyes searched Ruth’s, and for a moment there was silence. “What is it?” he asked. They were wandering now, aimlessly, back to the house. “If I were to tell you what I think,” said Ruth slowly, “you would call me mad.” “You don’t mind that.” He spoke impatiently. “Tell me.” “Not yet—wait. Did anything strike you when she burst out like that just now?”