The conversation that ensued was not entirely devoid of friction. Something in the tone of Félicia’s questions and comments seemed to rouse the two Welsh girls, and the sedate Gwladys took refuge in assuring her calmly that she could not possibly understand the pleasures and interests of a life so far removed from her own, and therefore there was no use in telling her about them. The livelier Myfanwy, on the other hand, was anxious to justify her contentment with things as they were. She and Gwladys were so busy, she said, that they really had no time to go about hunting for amusement; but when they wanted it there was plenty of one kind or another. They had their bicycles, and they took turns in driving their parents in the pony-cart, and they belonged to a harmonic society, and this winter there were University Extension Lectures in Aberkerran, and Lady Caerleon had given them tickets. They took turns, also, in going to dinner-parties, and in the summer there was tennis--which still lingered on in this remote corner of the world--and croquet (Gwladys was a crack player), and picnics, and choir excursions--the last form of dissipation was included somewhat doubtfully. “But don’t you ever have any frolics?” demanded Félicia. Both girls looked rather offended at being asked such a question, but inquired forbearingly what in the world she meant. Félicia, racking her memory to recall the amusements of country girls in America, mentioned candy-pulls, corn-huskings, apple-bees, clam-suppers, and church-socials, to which they replied with marked coolness that in England it was only the farmers and the Dissenters who went in for that sort of thing. “Maybe this is a frolic?” suggested Maimie, with a wave of her hand, which included the room and the tea-table. “It is a great pleasure,” answered Gwladys calmly; and Myfanwy added with effusion that they loved coming to the Castle, and wasn’t Lady Caerleon sweet? Lady Caerleon returned to the drawing-room at this moment, and carried off the Jones girls to her boudoir, to show them a new photograph of Philippa, which had just arrived. “And I know just as well as anything what she said to them when she had them alone,” said Félicia. “‘My dears, in your simple useful lives you are far happier than those two selfish creatures in the parlour, who do nothing all the time.’” “And the girl with the queer name just threw her arms round her neck, and said, ‘_Dear_ Lady Caerleon!’” mimicked Maimie. “But how did Phil stand it, any way?” said Félicia again. “That was a real sweet letter she wrote me this morning, or I’d have thought she was trying to get at me. ‘I do envy you in my dear old room. Do please ride Brownie, and use any of my things as much as you like. I wish I was at home to show you round.’ How could she want to be back home? No bouquets--no bonbons--no gentlemen--no sleigh-rides--no dancing--and yet she lived!”