“Yes, there you’re right. There might be Vicars, the everlasting Vicars whose occupation will be gone, and who will have to return to be a butler, like the others. Oh, no, I’ve no pity for Vicars. I daresay it was he who put his mistress up to it. Mind you keep a good look-out. You don’t know how important it may be for me. Yes, I know I must go. It will be droll after this, won’t it, to meet solemnly, as if we had not seen each other for ages, and didn’t care if we never met again? Eh? To be sure, I’m going to dinner, and you are never seen on those occasions. Poor little Janet, eating her morsel up in the nursery, like a naughty child, and knowing there’s some one downstairs. Never mind, I shall only think of you the more.” “And make fun of me with her?” said Janet, in a sharper, more audible tone. “With Gussy, bless her! No, she never lets me make fun. She don’t understand it. You needn’t be jealous, little one, though I avow it’s droll enough, the position altogether: to keep her in good humor--and then you, you little spitfire.” Janet was not audible but in the movement of her figure, the twist of her shoulders, the poise of her head, there was a question and remonstrance as clear as words. “Why do I do it? Oh, it’s all very complicated, very difficult to understand. I couldn’t explain unless I had time. Unfair! no; there’s nothing unfair, don’t you know, in love or in war. Don’t be afraid; she’s of the careless kind, it will do her no harm. I ought not? Well, perhaps not, strictly speaking. But when does one do everything one ought? This is not right--perhaps not; but it’s all the more sweet, eh, little one? And as for Gussy!” he laughed, that triumphant laugh which, even to Janet’s bewildered ears, was not without offence, “for Gussy----” with a gurgle of mirth in the words.