“I don’t know where she gets them,” said Mrs. Massarene drearily. “William always said the only comfort about a girl was that a girl couldn’t spite you in politics as a boy might; but if her ideas aren’t politics, and the worst sort of politics, I don’t know what is, and when you’ve kept a daughter ten years and more at school where nobody else goes as isn’t titled, it’s a cross as one doesn’t look for to have her turned out a Republican.” Lady Kenilworth laughed with genuine mirth, which showed all her pretty teeth, white, and even and pointed like a puppy’s. “Is she a Republican? Well, that is a popular creed enough now. I am not sure it wouldn’t get you on better than being on our side. The Radicals do such a lot for their people, and do it seriously without a grimace. We always”--“put our tongue in our cheek while we do it,” she was about to add, when a sense of the imprudence of her confession arrested her utterance of it. “I do wonder, you know, that you belong to us,” she hastened to add with that air of candor which so often stood her in good stead; “you would have found Hawarden easier of access than Hatfield.” Margaret Massarene stared. “But William’s principles, ma’am,” she murmured, “Church and State and Property; William says them three stand or fall together.” “And he will hold them all up on his shoulders like a Caryatide,” said Lady Kenilworth, with her most winning smile. Mrs. Massarene smiled too, blankly, because she did not understand, but gratefully, because she felt that a compliment was intended. “I can’t think, though, that it is wise of him to allow this visit. I think it is exceedingly ill-advised to let her be away from you so long,” said her visitor, still gazing through her eye-glass at Dalou’s bust, and reflecting as she gazed: “The young woman must be odious, but she is good-looking and Ronnie shall marry her. You don’t know my brother?” she said, apparently abruptly, but in her own mind following out her thoughts. “Meaning Lord Hurstmanceaux? No, ma’am, we haven’t that honor.” “We call it Hur’sceaux, please.” “Oh, indeed! As you say O’borne for Otterbourne, and Kers’ham for Kersterholme. Might I ask why those names are cut about so, ma’am?” “Usage! Why do we say Gore for Gower, and Sellenger for St. Leger?” “Rebecca Gower was postmistress at Kilrathy when I was a girl,” said Mrs. Massarene reflectively. “But Lord! if anybody had clipped _her_ down to Gore their letters would have all gone in the swill-tub!”