She entered her house, and walked into the parlour, rarely used. Upon a round table near the window was an immense family Bible. Mrs. Yellam placed her prayer-book beside it, and turned to go into the kitchen, which served as a living-room for herself and her son. Suddenly she paused, went back to the table, and opened the Bible. It had belonged to Alfred's great-grandfather. Upon a fly-leaf were many names and dates--births, marriages and deaths. Her eyes lingered upon Alfred's name. Alfred Habakkuk Yellam, born November 19th, 1883. Alfred's father had objected to the name Habakkuk. But Alfred's mother had her way. A favourite brother had been so christened. She closed the Book. Yes; it was fully time that Alfred should marry. She wondered what name would be inscribed beside his. At the kitchen door she found waiting a small Hebe carrying a beef-steak pudding in a basin done up in a white napkin. Mrs. Yellam took the pudding from the child, placed it in the oven, after removing the napkin, and said wonderingly: "Whatever be you waiting for?" Hebe grinned. Young children love old jokes. Mrs. Yellam took from a shelf a large green bottle, shook it, and produced the expected bull's-eye. Hebe opened wide her mouth. Mrs. Yellam popped in the sweet. Hebe raced away to her own dinner. Mrs. Yellam, holding the bottle in her hand, stood still for a minute, watching the diminutive, diminishing figure till it was lost to sight. Then she turned and contemplated her garden smiling beneath a June sun. The midsummer heat still held deliciously the freshness of spring. The pervasive charm of the glorious month was at its highest pitch. And this stout, red-cheeked woman, nearing her sixtieth year, was subtly conscious of this, although incapable of putting thoughts into words. But dominating her sense of the beauty of things there remained an even more immeasurable satisfaction common to all women when they survey their belongings, great or small, a fundamental pride in possession which Tory statesmen, denying the vote to these supermen, have failed to take into wise account. Women are basically conservative, even the humblest of them. They cling to property, to tradition; they love the deep lanes, the very ruts along which they move; they clutch to their bosoms all that is truly theirs, beginning, of course, with their own children. At this moment, the Squire of the parish, Sir Geoffrey Pomfret, happened to be surveying his domain as seen from his own front door. And he had less reason behind a pride in great possession than Susan Yellam, inasmuch as his broad acres were an inheritance. Every vegetable and flower in the Yellam garden had been planted and tended by the proprietress. They were perfect in her eyes because of this. She had precisely the same feeling about Alfred, her son, whom she perceived leisurely approaching the comfortable home that she had made for him.