We entered, and I put before him my notions—such of them as I felt he would approve. We were some time about the business, and when we looked at our watches young Bute’s last train to town had gone. There still remained much to talk about, and I suggested he should return with me to the cottage and take his luck. I could sleep with Dick and he could have my room. I told him about the cow, but he said he was a practised sleeper and would be delighted, if I could lend him a night-shirt, and if I thought Miss Robina would not be put out. I assured him that it would be a good thing for Robina; the unexpected guest would be a useful lesson to her in housekeeping. Besides, as I pointed out to him, it didn’t really matter even if Robina were put out. “Not to you, sir, perhaps,” he answered, with a smile. “It is not with you that she will be indignant.” “That will be all right, my boy,” I told him; “I take all responsibility.” “And I shall get all the blame,” he laughed. But, as I pointed out to him, it really didn’t matter whom Robina blamed. We talked about women generally on our way back. I told him—impressing upon him there was no need for it to go farther—that I personally had come to the conclusion that the best way to deal with women was to treat them all as children. He agreed it might be a good method, but wanted to know what you did when they treated you as a child. I know a most delightful couple: they have been married nearly twenty years, and both will assure you that an angry word has never passed between them. He calls her his “Little One,” although she must be quite six inches taller than himself, and is never tired of patting her hand or pinching her ear. They asked her once in the drawing-room—so the Little Mother tells me—her recipe for domestic bliss. She said the mistake most women made was taking men too seriously. “They are just overgrown children, that’s all they are, poor dears,” she laughed. There are two kinds of love: there is the love that kneels and looks upward, and the love that looks down and pats. For durability I am prepared to back the latter. The architect had died out of young Bute; he was again a shy young man during our walk back to the cottage. My hand was on the latch when he stayed me. “Isn’t this the back-door again, sir?” he enquired. It was the back-door; I had not noticed it. “Hadn’t we better go round to the front, sir, don’t you think?” he said. “It doesn’t matter—” I began. But he had disappeared. So I followed him, and we entered by the front. Robina was standing by the table, peeling potatoes. “I have brought Mr. Bute back with me,” I explained. “He is going to stop the night.” Robina said: “If ever I go to live in a cottage again it will have one door.” She took her potatoes with her and went upstairs. “I do hope she isn’t put out,” said young Bute.