“No, of course. I quite agree. But Aunt Charlotte thinks there is nothing to gain by standing out. Muriel has quite made up her foolish mind. So the dignified thing seems to be to make the best of a miserable business.” “It may be,” said his Grace. “But personally I should be grateful if Charlotte would mind her own affairs.” The tone implied quite definitely that he had no wish to pursue the topic; nay, it even invited Sarah to make an end of their talk and to go away as soon as possible. Clearly he was far from understanding that it was little more than a red herring across the trail of a sinister intention. But the fact was revealed to him by her next remarks. “Oh, by the way, father,” she said casually, or at least with a lightness of tone that was misleading, “there’s one other matter. I’ve been thinking the situation out.” “Situation!” groped his Grace. “That has been created.” Sarah’s tone was almost infantile--“by your insisting that Mrs. Sanderson should stay on.” “Well, what of it, what of it?” “It simply makes the whole thing impossible.” Sarah had achieved the voice of the dove. “So long as this woman remains in the house one feels that one cannot stay here.” “Why not?” “Because”--Sarah fixed a deliberate eye on the face of her sire--“neither Aunt Charlotte nor I think that the present arrangement is quite seemly.” II The attack had been neatly launched, and she saw by the look on her father’s face that it had gone right home. She was a slow-witted, rather crass person, with a kind of heavy conceit of her own, but like all the other Dinneford ladies, at close quarters she was formidable. The button was off her foil. It was her intention to wound. And at the instant she struck, his Grace was unpleasantly aware of that fact. “What d’ye mean?” It was his recoil from the stroke. “I have talked over the matter with Aunt Charlotte. She agrees with me that the present arrangement is quite hopeless. And she thinks that as you are unwilling for Mrs. Sanderson to be sent away, the only course for Blanche, Marjorie, and myself is to leave the house.” The face of her father grew a shade paler, but for the moment that was the only expression of the inward fury. He saw at once that the dull fool who dared to beard him was no more than a cat’s-paw of the arch-schemer. The mine was Charlotte’s, even if fired by a hand infinitely less cunning. “Is this a threat?” The surge of his rage was hard to control. “You leave us no alternative,” said Sarah doughtily. “Aunt Charlotte thinks in the circumstances we shall be fully justified in going to live with her. I think so, too; and I don’t doubt that Blanche and Marjorie will see the matter in the same light.” “What do you think you will gain?” His voice shook with far more than vexation. “The proposal simply amounts to the washing of dirty linen in public.” “There is such a thing as personal dignity, father,” said Sarah in her driest tone.