“And he’s indoors working at it now? What funny things men do!” She was silent for a while, watching Humility’s bobbins. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter just _what_ they do. The great thing is to do it better than anyone else. Does Mr. Raymond think Taffy clever?” “He never talks about it.” “But he _thinks_ so. I know; because at lessons when he says anything to Taffy it’s quite different from the way he talks to George and me. He doesn’t favour him, of course; he’s much too fair. But there’s a difference. It’s as if he _expected_ Taffy to understand. Did Mr. Raymond teach him all those stories he knows?” “What stories?” “Fairy tales, and that sort of thing.” “Good gracious me, no!” “Then _you_ must have. And you _are_ clever, after all. Asking me to believe you’re not, and making that beautiful lace all the while, under my very eyes!” “I’m not a bit clever. Here’s the pattern, you see, and there’s the thread, and the rest is only practice. I couldn’t make the pattern out of my head. Besides, I don’t like clever women.” “A woman must try to be _something_.” Honoria felt that this was vague, but wanted to argue. “A woman wants to be loved,” said Mrs. Raymond thoughtfully. “There’s such a heap to be done about the house that she won’t find time for much else. Besides, if she has children, she’ll be planning for them.” “Isn’t that rather slow?” Humility wondered where the child had picked up the word. “Slow?” she echoed, with her eyes on the horizon beyond the dunes. “Most things are slow when you look forward to them.” “But these fairy-tales of yours?” “I’ll tell you about them. When my mother was a girl of sixteen she went into service as a nursemaid in a clergyman’s family. Every evening the clergyman used to come into the nursery and tell the children a fairy-tale. That’s how it started. My mother left service to marry a farmer--it was quite a grand match for her--and when I was a baby she told the stories to me. She has a wonderful memory still, and she tells them capitally. When I listen I believe every word of them; I like them better than books, too, because they always end happily. But I can’t repeat them a bit. As soon as I begin they fall to pieces, and the pieces get mixed up, and, worst of all, the life goes right out of them. But Taffy, he takes the pieces and puts them together, and the tale is better than ever: quite different, and new, too. That’s the puzzle. It’s not memory with him; it’s something else.” “But don’t you ever make up a story of your own?” Honoria insisted. Now you might talk with Mrs. Raymond for ten minutes, perhaps, and think her a simpleton; and then suddenly a cloud (as it were) parted, and you found yourself gazing into depths of clear and beautiful wisdom. She turned on Honoria with a shy, adorable smile: “Why, of course I do--about Taffy. Come in and let me show you his room and his books.”