"And now about the Institute!" said Jenny the next morning. Cartmell had obeyed her summons to come up to the Priory, and the three of us were together in my office there.

She was not wasting time. Matters were to move quick. She had come home with her plans matured, ready for execution. The enemies might hesitate, losing themselves in debate. She would not hesitate, nor take part in the debate about herself. Acting and acting quickly, she would carry the position while they still discussed how—or even whether—it should be defended.

"The Committee stands adjourned sine die," said Cartmell. "You'd convene a meeting?"

Jenny would have none of convening the Committee. It would be awkward if some of the members did not come—and still more awkward if all of them attended!

"I regard the Committee as having abdicated," she told us. "They chose to adjourn—let them stay adjourned. I shall go over their heads—straight to the Corporation. Let's see if the Corporation will refuse! If they do, we shall know where we are."

Of course she did not think that they would refuse, or she would never have risked an offer which forced the issue into the open. Fillingford had his feelings, Alison his scruples. Both scruples and feelings were intelligible. But was the Borough Council going to refuse a hundred thousand pounds freely given for the borough's benefit?

"Hatcham Ford as it stands—and a hundred thousand pounds, please, Mr. Cartmell."

"With the town spreading out as it is in that direction, that's more like a hundred and fifty in reality," he grumbled.

"I'm going to bleed you sadly!" Jenny assured him gayly. "We'll send for Mr. Bindlecombe and get this in hand at once. We'll see the Institute growing out of the ground within the year!"

Bindlecombe, too, was all for a dashing strategy—though I think that he would have been for anything that Jenny wanted. The letter to the Mayor (Bindlecombe no longer filled that office, though he was still a leading member of the Corporation) was written; it appeared in the paper; a meeting to consider it was called for the next week. In the same issue of the paper appeared an account of Jenny's reception in Catsford, and an announcement of the impending holiday and feast. That issue might fairly be called Jenny's number. Her friends were jubilant; her enemies were bewildered by the audacity of her assault.

But Jenny did not come off without loss. Not only did she confirm the disapproval of those who were resolute against her—I heard much of Mrs. Jepps's outspoken and shocked comments, something of Alison's stern silence—but she lost or came near to losing an adherent of undoubted value.

Dash and defiance were not Lady Aspenick's idea of the proper way of proceeding; and another thing offended her no less. She had, I think, on the news of Jenny's return, devised a scheme by which she was to be Jenny's protector and champion; she would throw the Ægis of Overington Grange's undoubted respectability over Jenny's vulnerable spot; her influence, tact, and diplomacy would gradually smooth Jenny's path back to society; Jenny would be bound to gratitude and to docility. The dashing strategy upset all that; the appearance of Margaret Octon upset it still more.

She paid her call on Jenny—her previous position committed her to that. She drove over—not in a tandem—on the same day on which all the news about Jenny was in the paper. I met her as she went away, happening to come up to the Priory door just as she was coming out—Jenny not escorting her. She was looking black.

"It's pleasant to welcome you to a cheerful house once again, Lady Aspenick. We've had a long dull time at the Priory."

"You won't be dull now, anyhow," she rejoined with some acidity. She dropped her voice that the men might not hear. "Oh, how unwise! All this parade and splash! I can't tell you how I feel about it—and Jack, too! And poor Mr. Alison! And, to crown all, she flings the thing in our faces by bringing this girl with her!"

"She's a very nice girl," I pleaded meekly.

"I know nothing about that. She's that man's daughter. Surely Jenny Driver might have known that her chance lay in having it all forgotten and—and in being—well, just the opposite of what she is now? She goes on as if she were proud of herself!"

As a criticism on Jenny's public attitude, there was some truth in this. I could not tell Lady Aspenick about her private attitude—nor would it make matters better if I did.

"She makes it very hard for her friends," continued the aggrieved lady. "We were anxious to do our best for her. But really—!" Words failed. She shook her head emphatically at me and walked off to her carriage.

I found Jenny in a fine rage as the result of Lady Aspenick's expression of her views—which had apparently been nearly as frank to her as to me. Yet she protested that she had behaved with the utmost wisdom and meekness—for Margaret's sake.

"I stood it, Austin," she declared, with a little stamp of her foot. "How I stood it I don't know, but I did. She lectured me—she told me I ought to have been guided by her! She said I was going quite the wrong way about it with the Institute and that she deeply regretted the 'scene' in Catsford. The scene! She threatened me with the parsons and the Puritans!"

How very angry Jenny was! Parsons and Puritans!

"And ended up—yes, she dared to end up—by telling me I must send Margaret away. She'll see more of Margaret than she thinks before she's done with her!"

"And you were very meek and mild?"

"I know you don't believe it. But I was. I was absolutely civil and thanked her for her kindness. But of course I said that I must judge for myself—and that the question of Margaret lay absolutely outside the bounds of discussion."

"To which Lady Aspenick——?"

"She got up and went. What did she say to you?"

"Much the same—that you were making it very difficult for her."

"I've gained more than I've lost in Catsford," Jenny declared obstinately and confidently. Then her voice softened. "As for poor little Margaret—it's not a question of my gain or my loss there. You do know that?" She was appealing to me for a kind judgment.

"I'm beginning to understand that."

"I stand or fall with Margaret; or I fall—if only she stands. That's final." She broke into a smile. "So, in spite of what you think, I drove myself to be civil to Susie Aspenick. But let her wait a little! Send Margaret away!" Jenny looked dangerous again.

Jenny could have forgiven the criticism of her Catsford proceedings—though not over easily; the attempt to touch Margaret rankled, and, if I mistook not, would rankle, sorely.

It is pleasant to record that Jenny's chivalrous devotion to her "legacy" found appreciation elsewhere; it softened an opponent, and stirred to enthusiasm one already inclined to be a friend.

I had a note from Alison: "I can't countenance her goings on in Catsford—her courting of publicity and applause, her holidays and picnics—no, nor—at present—her Institute either. If she is entitled to come back at all, she is not entitled to come in triumph—far from it. But I like and admire what she is doing about Miss Octon, and I have scandalized Mrs. Jepps and many other good folk by saying so. In that she's brave and honest. I shouldn't mind if you could let her know how I feel on this second point; my views on the first she'll know for herself."

I did take occasion to let Jenny know what Alison wished to reach her. "He may think what he likes about Catsford, if he's on my side about Margaret," she declared with evident pleasure. Then her eyes twinkled. "We'll have him yet, Margaret and I between us!" she added.

The next Sunday she attended Alison's church—she, Chat, and Margaret Octon. I hope that she was not merely "doing the civil thing," like the duchess in the story. After all she had always been one of his bugbears—one of the people who went "fairly regularly."

That same Sunday, in the afternoon, Lacey came to see me. He drove up in his dog-cart, handed the reins to a good-looking dark man, with upturned mustaches, who sat by him, and came to my door. Having seen their arrival, I was there to open it and welcome him.

"Won't your friend come in, too?" I asked.

"He's all right; he's in no hurry, and he's got a cigar. I want to speak to you alone for just a minute."

He followed me in and sat down. His manner was thoughtful and a little embarrassed.

"I saw you down in Catsford the other day," I remarked. "They were very kind to us!"

"I want to ask you a question, Austin," he said. "Do you think that Miss Driver would wish to receive a call from me?"

"I'm sure she'd be delighted."

"Wait a bit. You haven't heard the whole position. You saw me in Catsford? You saw me bow to her?"

I nodded assent.

"Then I think I ought to go and pay her my respects—if it's not disagreeable to her to receive me."

"But why should it be?"

"I belong to Fillingford Manor. I'm living there now. Neither the master nor the lady of the house will—neither of them shares my views."

That did, on reflection, make the matter a little less simple than it had seemed at first.

"I don't suppose we either of us want to discuss their reasons—or wonder at the line they take. I had a little talk with my father about it. He's always very fair. 'You're a man,' he said. 'Decide for yourself. If after the recognition that passed between you—and on your initiative, as I understand—you feel bound—as you say you do—as a gentleman to go and pay your respects, go. But I shall be obliged to you if you will make the relations between that house and this as distant as is consistent with the demands of courtesy.'"

"In view of that I don't think you're in any way bound to call: I'm not at all sure you ought to. Lord Fillingford's wishes are entitled to great weight—especially while you're living in his house."

He was a man now—and a fine specimen of one—but his boyish impetuosity had not left him. "By Jove, I want to go, Austin!" he exclaimed.

"Well, I thought that perhaps you did."

"I want to go and see her—and I should like to tell her, if I dared, that there's not a man in the service to touch her. I don't mean her driving through Catsford—though she took a risk there; some of those chaps aren't mealy-mouthed. I mean what she's done about this little Miss Octon. That's what I like. Because the girl's her man's daughter, she snaps her fingers at the lot of us! That's what I like, Austin—that's why I want to go and see her. But I couldn't say that to the governor."

"You'll never be able to, any better. So you must consider your course. Is it—loyal—to your father?"

He knit his brows in perplexity and vexation. "Was I loyal to him that night we went to Hatcham Ford? You didn't make that objection then!"

"I don't think I should have taken any objection to anything that gave a chance then. I can look at this more coolly. Why not wait a little? Perhaps Lord Fillingford will come to the conclusion that bygones had best be bygones."

"And Aunt Sarah?"

"Is that quite so essential?"

He sat struggling between his scruples and his strong desire—loyalty to his father, admiration of Jenny and attraction toward her.

"I might manage to give her a hint of how you feel—and about the difficulty."

"That'd be better than nothing. Then she'd understand——?"

"She'd understand the whole position perfectly," I assured him.

He was plainly discontented with this compromise, but he accepted it provisionally. "You give her that hint, anyhow, like a good fellow, Austin—and I'll think over the other matter." He rose from his chair. "Now I mustn't keep Gerald Dormer waiting any longer."

"Oh, that's Gerald Dormer, is it—the new man at Hingston?"

"Yes, he's not a bad fellow—and he doesn't think he is, either." With this passing indication of Mr. Dormer's foible, he led the way out of doors and introduced me to the subject of his remark. Gerald Dormer's manner was cordial and self-satisfied. We stood in talk a minute or two. The news of the holiday and of the feast in our park had reached Dormer, and he laughingly demanded an invitation. "I'm pretty hard up, and nobody gives me a dinner!" he protested.

"I'll make a note of your hard case and submit it to Miss Driver. But you're not a Driver employee, you know."

"Oh, but I'm quite ready to be—for a good screw, Mr. Austin."

"Here she comes, by Jove!" said Lacey in a quick startled whisper.

Yes, there she was, within thirty yards of us, coming down the hill from the Priory straight toward my house. Lacey glanced at the dog-cart, seeming to meditate flight; then he pulled off the right-hand glove which he had just put on and buttoned.

"Is that Miss Driver?" whispered Dormer. I nodded assent.

Jenny was in great looks that day, and, it seemed, in fine spirits. Her head was held high, her step was buoyant, there was a delicate touch of color in her cheeks as she came up to us. She met the gaze of all our eyes—for all, I am sure, were on her—with a gay smile and no sign of embarrassment.

"Why, I'm so glad to see you again," she cried to Lacey as she gave him her hand. "You can't think how often I've dreamed of our rides since I've been away!"

"I'm very glad to see you, Miss Driver. May I introduce my friend, Mr. Dormer—of Hingston?"

She bowed to him very graciously, but turned back directly to Lacey. I saw Dormer's eyes follow her movements with an admiring curiosity. Small wonder; she was good to look at, and he had, no doubt, heard much.

"You must come and see me," said Jenny. "Now when shall it be? Lunch to-morrow? Or tea? Not later than the next day, anyhow!"

At that point she must have seen something in his face. She stopped, smiled oddly, even broke into a little laugh, and said, almost in a whisper, "Oh, I forgot, how stupid of me!"

Her tone and air, and the look in her hazel eyes, were nicely compounded of humility and mockery. Confessing herself unworthy, she asked the man if he were afraid! Didn't he dare to trust himself—was he so careful of his reputation?

Lacey had promised me that he would "think over" the question of his relations toward Breysgate Priory. I suppose that he thought it over now—under Jenny's humble deriding eyes.

"Lunch to-morrow—I shall be delighted. Thanks awfully," he said.

So ended that case of conscience. Jenny said no more than "One-thirty"—but her lips curved over that prosaic intimation of the hour of the meal. She turned to Dormer.

"Could I persuade you to drop in, too, Mr. Dormer? We're neighbors, you know."

"It's most kind of you, Miss Driver. I shall be delighted."

No scruples there; yet he, too, was, as he had chanced to mention, a guest at Fillingford Manor.

"Besides, I want to get something out of you," Jenny went on, "and I'm much more likely to do that if I give you a good lunch."

"Something out of me? What, Miss Driver?"

"Ah, I shan't tell you now. Perhaps I may—after lunch."

He leaned down toward her and said banteringly, "You'll have to ask me very nicely!"

"You may be sure I shall!" cried Jenny, with a swift upward glance.

Jenny was flirting again—with both of them—perhaps with me also, for her side-glances in my direction challenged and defied my opinion of her proceedings. I was glad to see it; I did not want her abnegations to go too far, and it is always a pity that natural gifts should be wasted; one might, however, feel pretty sure that any Lent of hers would have its Mi-CarÊme.

But if flirting—a thing pleasant in itself, an exercise of essentially feminine power—it was also purposeful flirting. She conciliated the new owner of Hingston, who had his position—who also had his outlying farms; and again she drove a wedge—this time into Lord Fillingford's house-party.

"I'm so glad you can come," she said to Lacey. "I want you to meet Margaret so much." She paused for a second. "Miss Octon, you know." She looked him very straight in the face as she spoke.

"It's very good of you to let me," he said. "I hear she's charming."

"I'm sure the Priory needs no additional attraction." This from Dormer in the dog-cart.

To one who knew Jenny well it was possible to see that this speech was not wholly to her liking—but Dormer was not allowed to see it. He received a passing but sufficient smile of graciousness before she gave the hearty thanks of her eyes to Lacey. "She is charming—you'll think so." A second's pause again, and then—"It's really very good to see you. Some day—a ride? Margaret's having lessons down in the town. Austin can ride still, although he has taken to writing books. We shall make quite a cavalcade."

"I say, don't leave me out, Miss Driver." This, again, from Dormer in the dog-cart.

"You live too far off."

"You try me and see!" he protested. Evidently he was very well pleased with the progress which his short acquaintance was making.

Lacey shook hands with her again. "To-morrow at half-past one, then—both of you!" she said. He turned away—was it reluctantly?—and got into the cart. With wavings of hands and hats the two young men drove off. Jenny stood looking after them.

"What brought you here?" I asked.

"The sight of those young men," answered Jenny, smiling. "May I come into your house? Do you remember how I came in first?"

"I remember; we had parted forever in the afternoon."

"Things are generally like that. The people who seem transient stay, the people who seem permanent go. I'm glad you seemed transient, Austin." She was in my room now, thoughtfully looking round it as she talked.

"Lacey came here to ask whether you would like him to call."

"Of course I should like him to call."

"Against his father's wishes. Lord Fillingford did not forbid him to come, but expressed his hope that the relations between the two houses would be kept as distant as courtesy allowed. I told Lacey that, in view of his father's wish, it would be better for him not to call. He said he'd think it over. It was a question between loyalty to his father and admiration of you."

"Admiration?" Jenny was listening with a slight smile.

"Rather, of your behavior—especially about Margaret. He's enthusiastic about that—he thinks it splendidly brave. In case he decided against calling, he wanted you to know that."

"He would have decided against it?"

"I can't tell. He meant to think it over."

"I came down just by accident. I was going for a stroll when I saw you. And I came down on the chance—the chance of something amusing, Austin." She frowned a little. "I don't think I much like Mr. Dormer."

"Rather a conceited fellow."

She broke into a smile again. "But he may come in very convenient."

"To his own profit and comfort?"

"I think conceited people must take the chance of that. They expose themselves."

"To being robbed of their farms by deceitful wiles?"

"He'd get a very good price for his farms," said Jenny. I do not think that her mind had been occupied with the question of the farms. She was looking thoughtful again. "I don't think I quarrel with what Lord Fillingford said," she added.

"Not unnatural perhaps."

"I've never had any quarrel with Lord Fillingford," she said slowly. "Or only one—a woman's quarrel. He never fell in love with me. If he had, perhaps—!" She shrugged her shoulders. "But all that sort of thing is over now."

"Did it look so like it this afternoon?"

"Didn't we agree that I was—marriageable? Didn't you say that being marriageable was an asset—even though one didn't marry?" She came suddenly closer to me. "I've no right to ask you to trust me. I didn't trust you—I deceived you deliberately, carefully, grossly—and yet I expected you to help me—and took your help with very little thanks. Still—you stayed. Stay now, and don't think too badly."

"I don't think badly at all—why, you know it! But I must have my fun out of it."

"So you shall, Austin!" she laughed, with one of her sudden transitions to gayety. "I'm the fox, and you're the huntsman! Well, I'll try to give you a good run for your money—if you can follow the scent!"

"Through all your doubles?"

"Through all the doubles that lead me to my—earth!"

A dainty merry little face looked in at my window. "Oh, I've tracked you at last, Jenny!"

"Is everybody tracking me?" asked Jenny, her eyes mischievously mocking. "Run round to the door and come in, Margaret." She added quickly to me, "I'm glad she didn't come when they were here. I'm saving her up till to-morrow!"

The child came in and ran to Jenny. "Oh, what a delightful little room, Mr. Austin! Did my father ever come here?"

"Yes, pretty often," I answered. "We were friends, you know."

"Yes, and he hadn't many friends. Had he, Jenny?"

Jenny stooped down and kissed her. "Come, we'll go for our walk—to look at Hatcham Ford," she said.

"Shall we go inside?"

"It's all shut up," said Jenny.