“We don’t grant your premises, Olivia,” said Mr. Fenmarch. “‘The Towers’ may be old, but it is not dull. Medlow is not mouldering, but singularly progressive, and the place seems to—to pullulate with young men. So I think our advice to you is eminently reasonable.” “Oh, dear!” sighed Olivia. “That’s where all the trouble comes in. Our ideas of dullness, mouldering and pullu—what you call it; don’t correspond. Mother was very fond of a story of Sydney Smith. Perhaps she told you. He was walking one day with a friend through the slums and came across two women quarrelling across the street, through opposite windows. And Sydney Smith said: ‘They’ll never come to an agreement, because they are arguing from different premises.’” There was a silence. “I’ll have a drop more whisky,” said Mr. Trivett. “I think I see the point of the remark,” said Mr. Fenmarch greyly. “It was a play on the two meanings of the word.” “That was what my mother gave me to understand,” said Olivia. Then, after another spell of chill silence, she cried, her nerves on edge: “Do let us come to the end of it!” “We will,” said Mr. Trivett impressively. “But not before I’ve made a few remarks in protest, with Fenmarch as witness. I’m sorry there’s not another witness——” “Oh, I’ll get one!” cried Olivia. “Myra—the faithful Myra.” “Myra’s a servant, also a fool; and you’ve got her under your thumb,” said Mr. Trivett. “Well, well,” said Olivia, “we’ll give Myra a miss. But I know what you’re going to say—and the kind heart that makes you say it.”