She turned her fawn’s eyes on his with a sudden wonder at his meaning. “My own!” she said with the faintest tinge of astonished laughter in her voice. “What else could they be?” “I thought——I thought you might have step-children.” “Oh! of course! No! I’m their mother;—all four of them. They’re mine as far as that goes. Anyhow.” And her eye questioned him again for his intentions. But his thought ran along its own path. “You see,” he said, “there is something about you—so freshly beginning life. So like—Spring.” “You thought I was too young! I’m nearly six-and-twenty! But all the same,—though they’re mine,—_still_——Why shouldn’t a woman have work in the world, Mr. Brumley? In spite of all that.” “But surely—that’s the most beautiful work in the world that anyone could possibly have.” Lady Harman reflected. She seemed to hesitate on the verge of some answer and not to say it. “You see,” she said, “it may have been different with you.... When one has a lot of nurses, and not very much authority.” She coloured deeply and broke back from the impending revelations. “No,” she said, “I would like some work of my own.” §3 At this point their conversation was interrupted by the lady’s chauffeur in a manner that struck Mr. Brumley as extraordinary, but which the tall lady evidently regarded as the most natural thing in the world. Mr. Clarence appeared walking across the lawn towards them, surveying the charms of as obviously a charming garden as one could have, with the disdain and hostility natural to a chauffeur. He did not so much touch his cap as indicate that it was within reach, and that he could if he pleased touch it. “It’s time you were going, my lady,” he said. “Sir Isaac will be coming back by the five-twelve, and there’ll be a nice to-do if you ain’t at home and me at the station and everything in order again.” Manifestly an abnormal expedition. “Must we start at once, Clarence?” asked the lady consulting a bracelet watch. “You surely won’t take two hours——” “I can give you fifteen minutes more, my lady,” said Clarence, “provided I may let her out and take my corners just exactly in my own way.” “And I must give you tea,” said Mr. Brumley, rising to his feet. “And there is the kitchen.” “And upstairs! I’m afraid, Clarence, for this occasion only you must—what is it?—let her out.” “And no ‘Oh Clarence!’ my lady?” She ignored that. “I’ll tell Mrs. Rabbit at once,” said Mr. Brumley, and started to run and trod in some complicated way on one of his loose laces and was precipitated down the rockery steps. “Oh!” cried the lady. “Mind!” and clasped her hands.