"But--but----," she said, "I thought people got paid more than that!" "I told you you didn't know," said Richenda softly. "But--but--why, my aunt paid Miss Skrine one hundred and fifty pounds, just to go through her engagements, opening bazaars and charities and so on--just to write down on a slate what she had to do each day!" "Your aunt's Lady Moone," came from Richenda's couch. "I _know_ she got one hundred and fifty pounds, _and_ lived with them. One hundred pounds seems absurd." "That's what father said when he apologised to me." "But surely, all--all the people one sees aren't paid at that rate! Why, some cooks get a thousand--I've heard that for a fact----" "Some don't," came from the other pillow. "Well, some do, and if you strike an average, or whatever it's called----" But Richenda interrupted, softly and wearily: "Oh, you don't, don't, don't know." Louie asked further questions. She frowned, puzzled, at the answers. Of course Richenda herself wasn't a very effective sort of girl; if anybody had to be downtrodden it would very likely be she; but the things she was telling her now (Richenda had begun to talk again, resignedly rather than bitterly) were preposterous. There must be something wrong with Richenda, probably with her Weston too; she did not look quite right; she was very different from the rosy housemaids at Trant, for example. One hundred pounds a year!... She had forgotten all about Roy. When, presently, Richenda came as near to putting a question about him as she dared, she forgot about him again. One hundred pounds a year!... She lay on her back, her knees up, her hands behind her head, her sleeves fallen from her wonderful arms, the brows above the grey eyes knitted. She was sure that _she_ could do better than that! She even went so far as to say so. Richenda showed no resentment. "You've got Lord Moone behind you," she said. "I've got a prizefighter and a public-house behind me," Louie replied. "Yes--I know you think you know----" Louie lay awake, still pondering it all, long after Richenda had fallen into an uneasy sleep. On the following afternoon she met Roy by the stile again. She was restless, unsettled, she knew not what. She spoke almost sharply to him. "I'm not going to stand here with you," she said; "that's twice I've been seen. Come down the hill." Roy no longer urged the Rules. They walked together a hundred yards down the hill, and sat down under a gorse-bush. He made her move quite behind it, and even then tucked her skirt a little farther out of the gaze of a possible passer-by. "Now we're all right," he said. "How's Lovey this morning?" "I don't know. I haven't seen her." "Well, don't bite a fellow's head off, Louie." "Then don't bother me to-day.--No, I don't want my hand held." "What's the matter with you?" "If you don't leave me alone I shall go. I didn't sleep till nearly daylight."