"Well, it ain't none of my business," said Mrs. Rickett, with a sniff. "Nor it ain't yours either. But did you ever know anyone as wore anything the likes of that before?"

She shook out for her husband's inspection a filmy garment that had the look of a baby's robe that had grown up, before spreading it on her kitchen table to iron.

"Ah!" said Rickett, ramming a finger into the bowl of his pipe. "What sort of a thing is that now?"

"What sort of a thing, man? Why, a night-dress—of course! What d'you think?" Mrs. Rickett chuckled at his ignorance. "And that flimsy—why I'm almost afraid to touch it. It's the quality, you see."

"Ah!" said the smith vaguely.

Mrs. Rickett tested the iron near her cheek. "And it's only the quality," she resumed, as she began to use it, "as wears such things as these. Why, I shouldn't wonder but what they came from Paris. They must have cost a mint of money."

"Ah!" said Rickett again.

"She's as nice-spoken a young lady as I've met," resumed his wife. "No pride about her, you know. She's just simple and friendly-like. Yet I'd like to see the man as'd take a liberty with her all the same."

Rickett pulled at his pipe with a grunt. When not at work, it was usually his rÔle to sit and listen to his wife's chatter.

"She ain't been brought up in a convent," continued Mrs. Rickett. "That's plain to see. With all the gentle ways of her, she knows how to hold her own. Young Robin Green, he's gone just plumb moon-crazy over her, and it wouldn't surprise me"—Mrs. Rickett lowered her voice mysteriously—"but what some day Dick himself was to do the same."

"Ah!" said the smith.

"She's so taking, you know," said Mrs. Rickett, as if in extenuation of this outrageous surmise. "And there isn't anyone good enough for him about here. Of course there's the infant teacher—that Jarvis girl—she'd set her cap at him if she dared. But he wouldn't look at her. Young Jack's a deal more likely, if ever he does settle down—which I doubt. But Dick—he's different. He's—why if that ain't Mr. Fielding a-riding up the path! What ever do he want at this time of night? Go and see, George, do!"

George lumbered to his feet obediently. "Happen he's come to call on our young lady," he ventured, with a slow grin.

"Well, don't bring him in here!" commanded his wife. "Take him into the front room, while I put on a clean apron!" She hastened to shut the door upon her husband, then paused, listening intently, as Mr. Fielding's riding-whip rapped smartly on the door.

"Happen it is only the young lady he's after," she said to herself.

It was. In a moment, Mr. Fielding's voice, superior, slightly over bearing, made itself heard. "Good evening, Rickett! I think Miss Moore is lodging here. Is she in?"

"Good evening, sir!" said Rickett, and waited a moment for reflection. "She was in, but I can't say but what she may have gone out again with the dog."

"Well, find out, will you!" said Mr. Fielding. "Wait a minute! You'd better take my card."

Mrs. Rickett returned to her ironing. "What ever he be come for?" she murmured.

The squires' horse stamped on the tiled path. It was eight o'clock, and he wanted to get home to his supper. The squire growled at him inarticulately, and there fell a silence.

The evening light spread golden over the apple-trees in the orchard. Someone was wandering among the falling blossoms. He heard a low voice softly singing. He flung his leg over his horse's back abruptly and dropped to the ground.

The voice stopped immediately. The squire fastened his animal to the porch and turned. The next moment Columbus burst barking through the intervening hedge.

"Columbus! Columbus!" called Juliet's voice. "Come back at once!"

"May I come through?" said Mr. Fielding.

She arrived at the orchard-gate, flushed and apologetic. "Oh, pray do!
Please excuse Columbus! He always speaks before he thinks."

She opened the gate with the words, and held out her hand.

She was aware of his eyes looking at her very searchingly as he took it.
"I hope you don't mind a visitor at this hour," he said.

She smiled. "No. I am quite at liberty. Come and sit down!"

She led the way to a bench under the apple-trees, and the squire tramped after her with jingling spurs.

"I'm afraid you'll think me very unconventional," he said, speaking with a sort of arrogant humility as she stopped.

"I like unconventional people best," said Juliet.

He dropped down on the seat. "Oh, do you? Then I needn't apologize any further. You've been here about a week, haven't you?"

"Yes," said Juliet.

His look dwelt upon the simple linen dress she wore. "You came from London?"

"Yes," she said again.

He began to frown and to pull restlessly at the lash of his riding-whip.
"Do you think me impertinent for asking you questions?" he said.

"Not so far," said Juliet.

He uttered a brief laugh. "You're cautious. Listen, Miss Moore! I don't care a—I mean, it's nothing whatever to me where you've come from or why. What I really came to ask is—do you want a job?"

Juliet stiffened a little involuntarily. "What sort of a job?" she said.

His fingers tugged more and more vigorously at the leather. She realized quite suddenly that he was embarrassed, and at once her own embarrassment passed.

"Have you come to offer me a job?" she said. "How kind of you to think of it!"

"You don't know what it is yet," said Fielding, biting uncomfortably at his black moustache. "It may not appeal to you. Quite probably it won't. You've been a companion before—so Green tells me."

"Oh!" Juliet's straight brows gathered slightly. "Did Mr. Green tell you
I was wanting a job?"

"No, he didn't. Green sticks to his own business and nothing will turn him from it." The squire suddenly lashed with his whip at the grass in front of him, causing Columbus to jump violently and turn a resentful eye upon him. "I'll tell you what passed if you want to know."

"Thank you," said Juliet simply.

She leaned forward after a moment and pulled Columbus to her side; fondling his pricked ears reassuringly.

"It was on Sunday," said Fielding. "My wife saw you in church. She took rather a fancy to you. I hope you don't object?"

"Why should I?" said Juliet.

"Exactly. Why should you? Well, after Green's introduction, when you had gone, I asked him if he knew anything about you. He said he had only made your acquaintance the day before, that you had told him that you had held the post of companion to someone, he didn't say who. And I wondered if possibly you might feel inclined to see how you got on with my wife in that capacity. She is not strong. She wants a companion."

Juliet's grey eyes gazed steadily before her as she listened. The evening light shone on her brown head, showing streaks of gold here and there. Her attitude was one of grave attention.

As he ended, she turned towards him, still caressing the dog at her feet.

"Wouldn't it be better," she said, "if Mrs. Fielding knew me before offering me such a post?"

The squire smiled at her abruptly. "No, I don't think so. It wouldn't be worth while unless you mean to consider it."

"Is that her point of view?" asked Juliet.

"No; it's mine. If she gets to know you and sets her heart on having you, and then you go and disappoint her—I shall be the sufferer," explained Fielding, with another cut at the grass in front of him.

It was Juliet's turn to smile. "But I can't—possibly—decide until we have met, can I?" she said.

"Does that mean you'll consider it?" asked the squire.

"I am considering it," said Juliet. "But please give me time! For I have only just begun."

"That's fair," he conceded. "How long will it take you?"

She began to laugh. There was something almost boyishly naive about him, notwithstanding his obvious bad temper. "You haven't told me any details yet," she said.

"Oh, you mean money," he said. "I leave that to you. You can name your own terms."

"Thank you," said Juliet again. "That would naturally appeal to me very much. But as a matter of fact, I was not referring to money at that moment."

He gave her a keen look. "I didn't mean to offend you. Are you offended?"

She met his eyes quite squarely. "On second thoughts—no!"

"Why second thoughts?" he demanded.

Her colour rose faintly. "Because I think second thoughts are—kinder."

Fielding turned suddenly crimson. "So I'm a cad and a bounder, am I?" he said furiously.

Juliet's eyes contemplated him without a hint of dismay. There was even behind their serenity the faint glint of a smile. "I think that is putting it rather strongly," she said. "But I really don't know you yet. I am not in a position to judge—even if I wished to do so."

Fielding sat for a moment or two quite rigid, as if on the verge of springing to his feet and leaving her. Then with amazing suddenness he broke into a laugh, and the tension was past.

"By Jove, I like you for that!" he said. "You did it jolly well. You've got pluck, and you know how to keep your temper. You'll have to forgive me, Miss Moore. We're going to be friends after this."

There was something very winning about this overture, and Juliet was not proof against it. He was evidently of those who consider that an apology condones any offence, and, though she was far from agreeing with him on this point, it was not in her to be churlish.

She smiled at him without speaking.

"Sure you're not angry with me?" urged the Squire.

She nodded. "Yes, quite sure. Won't you go on where you left off?"

"Where did I leave off?" He frowned. "Oh yes, you asked for details. Well, what do you want to know? My wife always breakfasts in bed, so she wouldn't want you before ten. But you'd live with us of course. I'd see that they made you comfortable."

"If my duties did not begin before ten, there would be no need for that," pointed out Juliet.

He looked at her in surprise. "Of course you'd live with us! You can't want to stay here!"

"But why not?" said Juliet. "They are very kind to me. I am very happy here."

"Oh, nonsense!" said the squire. "You couldn't do that. I believe you're afraid I want to make a slave of you."

"No, I am not afraid of that," said Juliet. "But go on, if you don't mind! What happens after ten o'clock?"

"Well, she opens her letters," said the squire. "Tells you what wants answering and how to answer it. P'raps you read the papers to her for a bit before she gets up, and so on."

"Does that take the whole morning?" asked Juliet.

"No. She's down about twelve. Sometimes she goes for a ride then, if she feels like it. Or she walks about the grounds, or drives out in the dog-cart. She's very keen on horses. Then either she goes out to lunch or someone lunches with us. And after that she's off in the car for a fifty-mile run—or a hundred if the mood takes her. She's never quiet—except when she's in bed. That's what I want you for. I want you to keep her quiet."

"Oh!" said Juliet.

This was shedding a new light upon the matter. She looked at him somewhat dubiously.

"Come! I know you can," he said. "You've been through the treadmill. You know all about it and it doesn't attract you. This infernal chase after excitement—it's like a spreading fever. There's no peace for anyone now-a-days. I want you to stop it. You've got that sort of influence. I sensed it directly I saw you. You've got that priceless possession—a quiet spirit. She wouldn't go tearing over the country racing and gambling and then card-playing far into the night if you were there to pull her up. She'd be ashamed—with anyone like you looking on."

"Would she?" said Juliet. "I wonder. And how do you know that that sort of thing doesn't attract me?"

"Of course I know it. You carry it in your face. You're a woman—not a dancing marionette. You wouldn't despise a woman's duties because they interfered with pleasure. You were made in a different mould. Anyone can see that."

Juliet was smiling a little. "I can't claim to be anything very great," she said. "But certainly, I was never very fond of cards."

"Of course you weren't. You've too much sense to do anything to excess. Now look here, Miss Moore! You're coming, aren't you? You'll give the thing a trial. I promise you, you shan't be bullied or overworked. It's such an opportunity, for my wife really has taken a fancy to you. And she can be quite decent to anyone when she likes. You can bring the dog along," continued the squire. "You can have your own sitting-room—your own maid, if you want one. You can come and go as you choose. No one will interfere with you. All I want you to do is to put the brake on my wife, make her take an interest in her home, make her take life seriously. She's not at all strong. She doesn't give herself a chance. Unless I fetch in a doctor and practically keep her in bed by main force she never gets any decent rest. Why, she's hardly ever in her room before two in the morning. It's almost a form of madness with her, this ceaseless round. I can't prevent it. I'm a busy man myself." He suddenly got to his feet with a jerk and stood looking down at her with sombre eyes. "I'm a busy man," he repeated. "I have my ambitions, and I work for them. I work hard. But the one thing I want more than anything else on earth is a son to succeed me. And if I can't have that—there's nothing else that counts."

He spoke with bitter vehemence, beating restlessly against his heel with his whip. But Juliet still sat silent, looking out before her at the golden pink of the apple-trees in the sunset light with grave quiet eyes.

He went on morosely, egotistically, "I don't know what I've done that I shouldn't have what practically every labourer on my estate has got. I may not have been absolutely impeccable in my youth. I've never yet met a man who was—with the single exception of Dick Green who hasn't much temptation to be anything else. But I've lived straight on the whole. I've played the game—or tried to. And yet—after five years of marriage—I'm still without an heir, and likely to remain so, as far as I can see. She says I'm mad on that point." He spoke resentfully. "But after all, it's what I married for. I don't see why I should be cheated out of the one thing I want most, do you?"

Juliet's eyes came up to his, slowly, somewhat reluctantly. "I'm afraid I haven't much sympathy with you," she said.

"You haven't?" he looked amazed.

"No." She paused a moment. "It was a pity you told me. You see, a woman doesn't care to be married—just for that."

"And what do you suppose she married me for?" he demanded indignantly.
"Do you think she was in love with me—a man thirty years older than
herself? Oh, I assure you, there were never any illusions on that score!
I had a good deal to offer her, and she jumped at it."

Juliet gave a slight shiver, and abruptly his manner changed.

"I'm sorry. Put my foot in it again, have I? You'll have to forgive me, please. No, I shouldn't have told you. But you've got such a kind look about you—as if you'd understand."

She was touched in spite of herself. She got up quickly and faced him. "What I can't understand," she said, a ring of deep feeling in her voice, "is how anyone can possibly barter their happiness, their self-respect, all that is most worth having, for this world's goods, this world's ambitions, and expect to come out of it anything but losers. Oh, I know it's done every day. People fight and scramble—yes, and grovel in the mud—for what they think is gold; and when they've got it, it's only the basest alloy. Some of them never find it out. Others do—and break their hearts."

He stared at her. "You speak as one who knows."

"I do know," she said. "Since I've been here, had time to think, I've realized it more and more. This dreadful fight for front places, for prosperity—this rooted, individual selfishness—the hopeless materialism of it all—the ultimate ruin—." She broke off. "You'll take me for a street ranter if I go on. But it's rather piteous to see people straining and agonizing after what, after all, can never bring them any comfort."

"But that's just what I was saying," he protested.

Her frank eyes looked straight into his. "But you're doing it yourself all the same," she said. "You're playing for your own hand all the time and so you're a loser and always will be. It's the chief rule of the game." She smiled faintly. "Please forgive me for telling you so, but I've only just found it out for myself; so I had to tell someone."

"You're rather a wonderful young woman," said the squire, still staring.

She shook her head. "Oh, no, I'm not. I've just begun to use my brains, that's all. They're nothing at all out of the ordinary, really."

He laughed. "Well, you've given me a pretty straight one anyway. Have you got a home anywhere—any home people?"

"None that count," said Juliet.

"Been more or less of a looker-on all your life, eh?" he suggested.

"More or less," smiled Juliet.

He held out his hand to her abruptly. "Look here! You're coming, aren't you?"

"I don't know," said Juliet.

"Well, make up your mind quick!" He held her hand, looking at her.
"What's the objection? Tell me?"

She freed her hand gently but with decision. "I can't tell you entirely. You must let me think. For one thing, I want more freedom of action than I should have as an inmate of your house. I want to come and go as I like. I've never really done that before, and I'm just beginning to enjoy it."

"That's a selfish reason," said the squire, with a sudden boyish grin at her.

She coloured slightly. "No, it isn't—or not wholly."

"All right, it isn't. I unsay it. But that reason won't exist as far as you are concerned. You will come and go exactly as you like always. No one will question you."

"You're very kind," said Juliet.

He bowed to her ceremoniously. "That's the first really nice thing you have said to me. I must make a note of it. Now would you like my wife to call upon you? If so, I'll send her round to-morrow at twelve."

"If she would care to come," said Juliet.

"Of course she would. She shall come then—and you'll talk things over, and come to an understanding. That's settled, is it? Good-bye!"

He turned to go, pausing at the gate to throw her another smiling farewell. She had not thought that gloomy, black browed countenance could look so genial. There was something curiously elusive, almost haunting, about his smile.

"Columbus!" said Juliet. "I'm not sure that he's a very nice man, but there's something about him—something I can't quite place—that makes me wonder if I've met him somewhere before. Would you like to go and live at the Court, Columbus?"

Columbus leaned against her knee in sentimental silence. He evidently did not care where he went so long as he was with the object of his whole-souled devotion.

She stooped and kissed him between the eyes. "Dear doggie!" she murmured.
"I wonder—are we happier—here?"