“Come into the dining-room and have a cup of tea,” said mother. “I told Rebecca to mash when you came in.” “All right. Leslie’s coming up later on, I believe—about half past eight, he said. Should I show him what I’ve bought?” “There’s nothing there for a man to see.” “I shall have to change my dress, and I’m sure I don’t want the fag. Rebecca, just go and look at the things I’ve bought—in the other room—and, Becky, fold them up for me, will you, and put them on my bed?” As soon as she’d gone out, Lettie said: “She’ll enjoy doing it, won’t she, mother, they’re so nice! Do you think I need dress, mother?” “Please yourself—do as you wish.” “I suppose I shall have to; he doesn’t like blouses and skirts of an evening he says; he hates the belt. I’ll wear that old cream cashmere; it looks nice now I’ve put that new lace on it. Don’t those violets smell nice?—who got them?” “Cyril brought them in.” “George sent them you,” said I. “Well, I’ll just run up and take my dress off. Why are we troubled with men!” “It’s a trouble you like well enough,” said mother. “Oh, do I? such a bother!” and she ran upstairs. The sun was red behind Highclose. I kneeled in the window seat and smiled at Fate and at people who imagine that strange states are near to the inner realities. The sun went straight down behind the cedar trees, deliberately and, it seemed as I watched, swiftly lowered itself behind the trees, behind the rim of the hill. “I must go,” I said to myself, “and tell him she will not come.” Yet I fidgeted about the room, loth to depart. Lettie came down, dressed in white—or cream—cut low round the neck. She looked very delightful and fresh again, with a sparkle of the afternoon’s excitement still. “I’ll put some of these violets on me,” she said, glancing at herself in the mirror, and then taking the flowers from their water, she dried them, and fastened them among her lace. “Don’t Lettie and I look nice to-night?” she said smiling, glancing from me to her reflection which was like a light in the dusky room. “That reminds me,” I said, “George Saxton wanted to see you this evening.” “What ever for?” “I don’t know. They’ve got notice to leave their farm, and I think he feels a bit sentimental.” “Oh, well—is he coming here?” “He said would you go just a little way in the wood to meet him.” “Did he! Oh, indeed! Well, of course I can’t.” “Of course not—if you won’t. They’re his violets you’re wearing by the way.” “Are they—let them stay, it makes no difference. But whatever did he want to see me for?” “I couldn’t say, I assure you.” She glanced at herself in the mirror, and then at the clock. “Let’s see,” she remarked, “it’s only a quarter to eight. Three quarters of an hour—! But what can he want me for?—I never knew anything like it.” “Startling, isn’t it!” I observed satirically. “Yes,” she glanced at herself in the mirror: “I can’t go out like this.” “All right, you can’t then.”