Susan grows thoughtful, filled with a slight amazement. She had been nervous, almost distressed, at the idea of having to lunch at the Park. Its habitués, she told herself, would be very grand folk, and clever, and learned, and would talk very far above her little countrified head. And now how is it? Why, after all, they are more like Dom in his queerest moods than anything else. ‘What shall we do after luncheon?’ says Lady Forster. ‘I am willing to chaperon anybody.’ She glances at Lady Muriel, and Susan intercepts the glance. Is it Lady Muriel and Mr. Crosby she is thinking of chaperoning? ‘Oh, I like your idea of supervision,’ says the Guardsman who has come in late, and who is called Lord Jack by everybody, only because, as Susan discovers afterwards, his name is Jack Lord. This, naturally, is inevitable. ‘You once undertook to chaperon me, and let me in for about the most _risqué_ situation of my life. I came out of it barely alive, and very nearly maimed.’ ‘Yes—I don’t think Katherine would make a very excellent chaperon,’ says Mrs. Prior, who likes Crosby, but cordially detests his sister. ‘What a slander!’ cries Lady Forster; ‘easy to see you don’t understand me! I’m a splendid chaperon—a born one. Always half a mile ahead—or else in the rear. One should always be ahead if possible, as it gives the poor creatures a chance of getting up to you in an honourable way, if the enemy should come in sight. Whereas the turning and running back business always looks so bad. No, better be in front of them. I’m going to write a little treatise on the art of chaperoning for all right-minded married women—and I hope you will accept a copy, dear Mrs. Prior.’ ‘I don’t expect I shall get one,’ says Mrs. Prior, with a distinct sneer. ‘Oh, you shall indeed, “honest Injun,”’ says Lady Forster. ‘You’ll be delighted with it.’ ‘I feel sure of that,’ says Captain Lennox in an aside to Miss Forbes. ‘But really what shall we do this afternoon, George?’ asks his sister; ‘ride—drive?’ She has left her seat, and has perched herself on the arm of the handsome old chair in which her husband is sitting at the foot of the table. ‘What about the Abbey, Bill?’ asks Crosby, addressing his brother-in-law. ‘No use in asking “Billee Barlow” anything,’ says that young man’s wife. ‘He hasn’t an idea on earth. Have you, Billee? And the Abbey is miles off, and— Do you ride, Susan? I am going to call you Susan, if I may.’ She pauses just long enough to give Susan time to smile a pleased, if shy, assent. ‘Susan is so pretty,’ says Captain Lennox absently. ‘Eh?’ says Crosby quickly, and with a suspicion of a frown. ‘Very, very pretty,’ repeats Lennox fervently. Crosby glances at Susan. This absurd joke, this jest on her name—with anyone else here it would be a jest only, but Susan—would she.... Her colour is faintly, very faintly accentuated, and she is looking straight at Lennox.