“Of course, of course,” she said. “Then you understand. Then you won’t think it foolish if I ask you to take your car through the gardens, once or twice—quite slowly. I’m sure they’d like to see it. They see so little, poor things. One tries to make their life pleasant, but——” she threw out her hands towards the woods. “We’re so out of the world here.” “That will be splendid,” I said. “But I can’t cut up your grass.” She faced to the right. “Wait a minute,” she said. “We’re at the South gate, aren’t we? Behind those peacocks there’s a flagged path. We call it the Peacock’s Walk. You can’t see it from here, they tell me, but if you squeeze along by the edge of the wood you can turn at the first peacock and get on to the flags.” It was sacrilege to wake that dreaming house-front with the clatter of machinery, but I swung the car to clear the turf, brushed along the edge of the wood and turned in on the broad stone path where the fountain-basin lay like one star-sapphire. “May I come too?” she cried. “No, please don’t help me. They’ll like it better if they see me.” She felt her way lightly to the front of the car, and with one foot on the step she called: “Children, oh, children! Look and see what’s going to happen!” The voice would have drawn lost souls from the Pit, for the yearning that underlay its sweetness, and I was not surprised to hear an answering shout behind the yews. It must have been the child by the fountain, but he fled at our approach, leaving a little toy boat in the water. I saw the glint of his blue blouse among the still horsemen. Very disposedly we paraded the length of the walk and at her request backed again. This time the child had got the better of his panic, but stood far off and doubting. “The little fellow’s watching us,” I said. “I wonder if he’d like a ride.” “They’re very shy still. Very shy. But, oh, lucky you to be able to see them! Let’s listen.” I stopped the machine at once, and the humid stillness, heavy with the scent of box, cloaked us deep. Shears I could hear where some gardener was clipping; a mumble of bees and broken voices that might have been the doves. “Oh, unkind!” she said weariedly. “Perhaps they’re only shy of the motor. The little maid at the window looks tremendously interested.” “Yes?” She raised her head. “It was wrong of me to say that. They are really fond of me. It’s the only thing that makes life worth living—when they’re fond of you, isn’t it? I daren’t think what the place would be without them. By the way, is it beautiful?” “I think it is the most beautiful place I have ever seen.” “So they all tell me. I can feel it, of course, but that isn’t quite the same thing.” “Then have you never—-?” I began, but stopped abashed.