‘But yes, really, dear Paul,’ Mrs. Prior is saying, ‘I think that housekeeper of yours, or caretaker, or whatever she is, takes too much upon her. I tried to explain to her I was your aunt, and, indeed, she has seen me several times, but I could not shake her determination to let no one in. Anyone might be excused for imagining that she was concealing something.’ ‘Garden-party for her own friends, no doubt,’ says Crosby. He has cast a half-amused, half-inquiring glance at Wyndham; but the latter’s face is impassive. ‘I think it a little serious,’ says Mrs. Prior. ‘Young men, as a rule, are always imposed upon by women of her class—caretakers, of course, I mean,’ with a careful glance at the innocent Josephine. ‘Landladies and that. Do you think, dear Paul, that she is quite honest?’ ‘Quite, I think.’ ‘Then why this extraordinary step on her part—this locking out your very nearest and’—with an open glance at Josephine—‘dearest? No, no, George,’ to Crosby, ‘you really must not jest on this subject. I feel it is quite important where Paul is concerned. You really know of no reason, Paul, why she should have forbidden us an entrance?’ Is there meaning in the question? Wyndham looks at her steadily before replying. ‘I was in France at the time,’ says he carelessly. ‘If she had a motive, how could I know it?’ Crosby leans back and crosses his arms negligently. ‘What an idiotic equivocation!’ thinks he. ‘You certainly ought to speak to her about it.’ ‘Of course I shall speak to her.’ Crosby smiles. ‘I really think you ought,’ says Mrs. Prior. ‘You can’—severely—‘mention me if you wish. I consider she behaved extremely badly. And I quite tremble for the dear little old place. You know it was an uncle of ours—a grand-uncle of yours—who left the place to your mother, and as girls we—that is, your aunts and I—used to be very fond of running up from your grandfather’s place in Kerry to spend a few weeks in it. We were all girls then—your mother, and I, and your——’ She stops, and sneezes most opportunely behind her lace handkerchief. The innocent Josephine had touched her foot under cover of her gown. Of course the aunt who had disappeared so unpleasantly had better not be mentioned. ‘I hope, Paul, you will see that this woman keeps the dear old place in order,’ says Mrs. Prior rather hastily. ‘To confess a dreadful truth,’ says Wyndham, smiling somewhat briefly, ‘I have almost made up my mind to let the Cottage. It has been rather a burden to me of late. And——’ ‘To let it. But why?’ ‘Well, as you see yourself,’ says Wyndham desperately, ‘Mrs. Moriarty does not seem capable of looking after it. It is an awful bore, you know, and’—with a rush of affection hitherto unborn—‘the idea of her having kept you out of the place seems to put an end to my trust in her for ever.’ Crosby flicks a little point of dust off his coat-sleeve. ‘Oh, the handsome liar!’ thinks he.