It seemed wonderful to her that she should be a grand rich lady going to Court and wearing diamonds. Through all these years through which the millions had been accumulating she had not been allowed to know of their accumulation, or permitted to cease from privations and incessant labor. More than a quarter of a century had been to her a period of toil quite as severe in one way as the life as a dairy-girl had been here in another way. Often and often in the bitter winters and scorching summers of the Northwest she had thought as of a lost paradise of these peaceful pastures, where no greater anxiety had burdened her than to keep her cows in health and have her milking praised. It was a fine thing to be a fine lady; yes, no doubt she was very proud of her new station in the world. But still, these white satin corsets of Paris which laced her in so tightly were less easy than the cotton jacket and the frieze coat; her hands laden with rings or imprisoned in gloves could not do the nimble work which they had been used to do; and the unconcealed contempt of the “smart society” in which she lived had not the warmth and comfort which had been in the jokes and the tears of the farm-girls when a cow upset the milk she had given or the boys came home fresh from a fair. It was all much grander of course in this, but ease was wanting. “My dear Ronnie! Those new folk your sister’s running are too delicious for anything,” said Daddy Gwyllian to Hurstmanceaux in the smoking-room. “I took the woman into supper, and on my soul I never laughed more at the Coquelins! I’m going to dine there on Sunday; they’ve got Richemont.” “More shame for you, Daddy!” said Hurstmanceaux. “I never thought you’d worship the golden calf.” “Well, rich people are pleasant to know,” said Daddy Gwyllian. “They’re comfortable; like these easy chairs. Borrow of ’em? No, ’tisn’t that. I never borrowed, or wanted to borrow, half-a-crown in my life. But they’re indirectly so useful. And they’re pleasant. You can turn lots of things on to them. You can get lots of fun out of them. You can do such a deal for your friends with them. Rich people are like well-filled luncheon-baskets; they make the journey with ’em mighty pleasant. The wine’s dry and the game-pie’s good, and the peaches are hothouse, and it’s all as it should be and no bother.” “I travel on cold tea,” said Hurstmanceaux with dry significance.