‘So as to keep her eye on her. And very necessary too, no doubt.’ ‘Did you see that pale young man, ever so thin and wretched-looking, but so conceited? His hair was nearly down to his waist, and he hadn’t any chin to speak of.’ ‘Oh, that!’ cries Betty eagerly. ‘That’s the poet. Yes, he is, Susan. He’s a real poet. Miss Ricketty told me about him yesterday. He has written sonnets and whole volumes of things, and is quite a poet. Miss Ricketty says that’s why his hair grows like that.’ ‘Samson must have been the laureate of his time,’ says Dominick thoughtfully. ‘So that was the poet,’ says Susan, who had heard of his coming from Crosby. ‘Well, he certainly looked queer enough for anything. I wonder’—nervously—‘who was the tall girl sitting next to Mr. Crosby?’ This was the tall girl with whom Crosby had driven away. ‘I don’t know,’ says Betty. ‘Wasn’t she pretty? And wasn’t she beautifully dressed? Oh, Susan, didn’t you want to see yourself in a gown like that?’ ‘No,’ says Susan shortly. ‘Well, I did. I wanted to know how I’d look.’ ‘As if you didn’t know,’ says Dominick encouragingly. ‘Like Venus herself!’ ‘I never heard she had her frocks from Paris,’ says Betty, hunching up an unkind little shoulder against him. ‘You’ve heard so little, you see,’ says Dom, with gentle protest. ‘Now, as a fact, Venus had her frocks made by—’ ‘Well?’ with a threatening air. ‘Miss Fogerty,’ naming Betty’s own dressmaker. ‘Pshaw!’ says that slim damsel contemptuously. ‘However, Susan, that girl was pretty, any way. I wonder who she was? Had she a maid, I wonder? There was a dark-looking woman amongst the servants farther on, just behind the poet. Perhaps it was hers.’ ‘Oh no,’ says Dom gravely, ‘that was his.’ ‘His?’ ‘The poet’s. Yes.’ ‘Nonsense!’ says Betty. ‘What would he want a maid for?’ ‘To comb his locks and copy his sonnets,’ says Dom, without blinking. ‘Nonsense! Men don’t have maids,’ says Betty, who seems to know all about it. ‘Oh, here is someone from the Park,’ cries Jacky suddenly. ‘Is it Mr. Crosby or Lady Forster?’ asks Susan anxiously. ‘Both of ’em,’ says Jacky, in his own sweet laconic style. The smart little cart, with its wonderful pair of ponies, rattled up to the door, and Miss Barry, who had known that someone would come to fetch Susan, and had therefore put on her best bib and tucker, emerged from the flower-crowned porch of the Rectory to receive Lady Forster, her old face wreathed in smiles. It was sweet to her to see Susan accepted and admired by the Park people. ‘Our own sort of people’ proudly thought the poor old maid, who had struggled with much poverty all her life.