I read to the end. It was signed: “Your very happy and still more unhappy Elise.” I suppose I must have been smiling. “I can see it makes you laugh,” said Mrs. Goyte, sardonically. I looked up at her. “It's a love-letter, I know that,” she said. “There's too many 'Alfreds' in it.” “One too many,” I said. “Oh yes.--And what does she say--Eliza? We know her name's Eliza, that's another thing.” She grimaced a little, looking up at me with a mocking laugh. “Where did you get this letter?” I said. “Postman gave it me last week.” “And is your husband at home?” “I expect him home to-night. He had an accident and hurt his leg. He's been abroad most of his time for this last four years. He's chauffeur to a gentleman who travels about in one country and another, on some sort of business. Married? We married? Why, six years. And I tell you I've seen little enough of him for four of them. But he always was a rake. He went through the South African War, and stopped out there for five years. I'm living with his father and mother. I've no home of my own now. My people had a big farm--over a thousand acres--in Oxfordshire. Not like here--no. Oh, they're very good to me, his father and mother. Oh yes, they couldn't be better. They think more of me than of their own daughters.--But it's not like being in a place of your own, is it? You can't _really_ do as you like. No, there's only me and his father and mother at home. Always a chauffeur? No, he's been all sorts of things: was to be a farm-bailiff by rights. He's had a good education--but he liked the motors better.--Then he was five years in the Cape Mounted Police. I met him when he came back from there, and married him--more fool me----” At this point the peacocks came round the corner on a puff of wind. “Hello, Joey!” she called, and one of the birds came forward, on delicate legs. Its grey spreckled back was very elegant, it rolled its full, dark-blue neck as it moved to her. She crouched down. “Joey dear,” she said, in an odd, saturnine caressive voice: “you're bound to find me, aren't you?” She put her face downward, and the bird rolled his neck, almost touching her face with his beak, as if kissing her. “He loves you,” I said. She twisted her face up at me with a laugh. “Yes,” she said, “he loves me, Joey does”--then, to the bird--“and I love Joey, don't I? I _do_ love Joey.” And she smoothed his feathers for a moment. Then she rose, saying: “He's an affectionate bird.” I smiled at the roll of her “bir-rrd.” “Oh yes, he is,” she protested. “He came with me from my home seven years ago. Those others are his descendants--but they're not like Joey--_are they, dee-urr?_” Her voice rose at the end with a witch-like cry. Then she forgot the birds in the cart-shed, and turned to business again. “Won't you read that letter?” she said. “Read it, so that I know what it says.” “It's rather behind his back,” I said.