It is so easy not to do some things. Bevan, had he acted correctly, ought to have informed Mr Lambert of his visit to Highgate and all that therein lay, yet he did not. There was nothing to hide, yet, as Sir Boyle-Roche might have said, he hid it.

During tea several things occupied his mind very much. The vision of Fanny Lambert was constantly before him, so was the person of her father. He could not but acknowledge that Lambert was a most attractive personage—attractive to men, to women, to children, to dogs, cats—anything that could see and feel, in fact. Everything seemed to brighten in his presence. Hamilton-Cox's dictum that if Lambert could be bottled he would make the most excellent Burgundy, was not far wrong.

Bevan, as he sipped his tea, watched the genial Lambert, and could not but notice that he paid very marked attention to Pamela, and even more marked attention to old Miss Jenkins, her aunt.

This did not altogether please him, neither did the fact that Pamela seemed to enjoy the attentions of this man, who was her diametrical opposite.

To the profound philosopher who indites these lines it seems that between men and women in the mass there is very little difference. They act pretty much the same, except, perhaps, in the presence of mice. Bevan did very much what a woman would have done in his position: seeing his true love flirting with some one else, he flirted with some one else. Lulu Morgan was nearest to him, so he used her.

"I've been in England a twelvemonth," answered Miss Morgan, in reply to a query, "and I feel beginning to get crusted. They say the old carp in the pond in Versailles get moss-grown after they've been there a hundred and fifty years or so, and I feel like that. When I say I've been in England a twelvemonth, I mean Europe. I've been in England three months, and the rest abroad. Pamela picked me up in Paris, you'd just gone back home; Lady Scott introduced me to her. I was looking out for a job. I came over originally with the Vandervades, then Sadie Vandervade got married; I was her companion, and I lost the job. Of course I could have stayed on with old man Vandervade and his wife, but I wanted a job. I'm like a squirrel, put me in a cage with nothing to do, and I'd die. I must have a mill to turn, so I froze on to Pamela's offer. I write her letters, and do her accounts, and interview her tradespeople. I guess she's getting fat for want of work since I've been her companion. Yes, I like England, and I like this place; if the people could be scraped out of it clean, it would be considerably nicer. I went to church last Sunday to have a good long considerate look at them; they all arrived in carriages—every one here who has a shay of any description turns it out to go to church in on Sunday. Well, I went to have a good long look at them, and such a collection of stuffed images and plug-uglies I never beheld. I'm vicious about them p'rhaps, for they treated Pamela so mean, holding off from her when she first came, and then rushing down her throat when they found she knew a duchess. They'd boil themselves for a duchess. Say—you know the Lamberts? Isn't Fanny sweet?"

Mr Bevan started in his chair, but Miss Morgan did not notice, engrossed as she was with her own conversation.

"We met them in Paris; and I don't know which is sweeter, Fanny or her father. She was to have come down here with him, but she didn't. My, but she is pretty. And don't the men run after her! there were three men in Paris raving about her; she'd only known them two days, and they were near proposing to her. Don't wonder at it, I'd propose to her myself, if I was a man. But she's a little flirt all the same, and I told her so."

"Excuse me," said Bevan, "but I scarcely think you are justified—that is—from what I have heard of Miss Lambert, I would scarcely suspect her of being a—flirt."

"Wouldn't you? Men never suspect a woman of being a flirt till they're flirted with and done for. Fanny's the worst description of flirt—oh, I've told her so to her face—for she doesn't mean it; she just leads men on with her sweetness, and doesn't see they're breaking their hearts for her. She's a regular trap bated with sugar. How did you escape, Mr Bevan? You're the only man, I guess, who ever did."

"I haven't the pleasure—er—of Miss Lambert's acquaintance," said Charles, rather stiffly.

"Well, you're safe, for you are engaged; only for that I'd say 'Don't have the pleasure of her acquaintance.' What I like about her is that she makes all the other women so furious; she sucks the men away from them like a whirlpool. It's a pity she's so rich, for it's simply gilt thrown away——"

"Is Miss—Miss Lambert rich?"

"Why, certainly; at least I conclude so."

"Did she tell you so?"

"No—but she gives one the impression; they have country houses like mushrooms all over the place, and she dresses simply just as she pleases; only really rich people can afford to do that. She went to the opera in Paris with us in an old horror of a gown that made her look quite charming. No one notices what she has on; and if she went to heaven in a coffee-coat they'd let her in, for she'd still be Fanny Lambert."

"You saw a good deal of her in Paris?"

"Yes, we went about a good deal."

"Tell me," said Mr Bevan very gravely, "you said she was a flirt—did you really mean that?"

"Why, how interested you are! She is, but not a bad sort of flirt. She's one of those people all heart—she loves everything and everybody—up to a certain point."

"Do you think she is in love with any man—beyond a certain point?"

"Can't say," said Miss Morgan, shaking her head sagely; "but when she does, she'll go the whole hog. The man she'll love she'll love for ever and ever, and die on his grave, and that sort of thing, you know."

"I believe you are right."

"Why, how do you know? You've never met her."

"I was referring to your description of her. Girls of her impulsive nature—er—generally do—I mean they are generally warm-hearted and that sort of thing."

"There's one man I think she has a fancy for," said Miss Morgan, staring into space with her wide-open blue eyes, "but he's poor as a rat—an awfully nice fellow, a painter; Mr Lambert fished him up somewhere in a cafÉ. He and Fanny and I and a friend of his went and had dinner at a little cafÉ near the Boul' Miche. Then we got lost—that is to say, I and Heidenheimer lost sight of Fanny and her friend; and Fanny told me afterwards she'd had no end of a good time finding her way home; so'd I. 'Twas awfully improper, of course, but no one knew, and it was in Paris."

"I may be old-fashioned, of course," said Mr Bevan stiffly, "but I think people can't be too careful, you know—um—how long was Miss Lambert lost with Mr——"

"Leavesley—that's his name. Oh! she didn't turn up at the hotel till after eight."

"Did Mr Lambert know?"

"Oh yes, but he wasn't uneasy; he said she was like a bad penny, sure to turn up all right."

"Good God!"

"What on earth!—why, there was no harm. Leavesley is the best of good fellows, he looked after her like a grandmother; he worships the very ground she walks on, and I'd pity the man who would as much as look twice at Fanny if he was with her."

"Um—Mr Leavesley, as you call him——"

"I don't call him, he calls himself."

"Well, Mr Leavesley may be all right in his way, but I should not care to see a sister of mine worshipped by one of these sort of people. Organ-grinders and out-of-elbow artists may be delightful company amidst their own set, but I confess I am not accustomed to them——"

"That's just your insular prejudice—seems to me I've heard that expression before, but it will do—Leavesley isn't an organ-grinder. I can't stand loafers myself, and if a man can't keep up with the procession, he'd better hang himself; but Leavesley isn't a loafer, and he'll be at the top of the procession yet, leading the elephant. Oh, he paints divinely!"

"Miss Lambert, you say, is in love with him?"

"I didn't—I fancy she had a weakness; but maybe it's only a fancy."

"Does he write to her?"

"Don't know—very likely; these artistic people can do things other people can't. We all went to see the Lamberts off at the Nord, and had champagne at the buffet; and poor old Fragonard—he was another worshipper, an artist you know—turned up with a huge big bouquet of violets for Fanny; we asked him where he'd got them, and he said he'd stolen them. They don't care a fig for poverty, artists; make a joke of it you know. Yes, I daresay he writes to Fanny. Heidenheimer writes to me every week—says he's dying in love with me, and sends poems, screechingly funny poems, all about nightingales and arrows and hearts. He's an artist too, and I'd marry him, I believe I would, only we're both as poor as Lazarus."

"Mr Leavesley is an artist you say?"

"Yes, but he's a genius, but genius doesn't pay—that's to say at first—afterwards—afterwards it's different. Trading rats for diamonds in famine time isn't in it with a genius when he gets on the make."

Mr Bevan gazed reflectively at the tips of his shoes. He quite recognised that these long-haired and out-at-elbowed anomalies y'clept geniuses had the trick, at times, of making money. A dim sort of wrath against the whole species possessed him. To a clean, correct, and level-headed gentleman possessed of broad acres and a huge rent-roll, it is unpleasant to think that a slovenly, shiftless happy-go-lucky tatterdemallion may be a clean, correct and level-headed gentleman's, superior both in brains, fascination, and even in wealth. We can fancy the correct one subscribing sympathy, if not money, to a society for the extinction of genius, were not such a body entirely superfluous in the present condition of human affairs.

"It may be," said Mr Bevan at last, "that those people are very pleasant and all that, and useful in the world and so on, but I confess I like to associate with people who cut their hair, and, not to put too fine a point on it, wash——"

"Oh, Leavesley washes," said Miss Morgan, "he's as clean as a new pin. And as for cutting his hair, my!—that's what spoils him in my opinion; why, it's cut to the bone almost, like a convict's. All artists cut their hair now; it's only Polish piano-players and violinists wear their hair long."

"Whether they cut their hair 'to the bone' or wear it long is a matter of indifference," said Mr Bevan. "They're all a lot of bounders, and I'd be sorry to see a sister of mine married amongst them—very sorry."

Miss Morgan said nothing, the warmth of Mr Bevan on the subject of Leavesley struck her as being somewhat strange; though she said nothing, like the parrot, she thought the more, and began to consider Mr Bevan more attentively and to "turn him over in her mind." Now the fortunate or unfortunate person whom Miss Morgan distinguished by turning them over in her mind, generally gave up their secrets in the process unconsciously, subconsciously, or sometimes even consciously. Those wide-open blue eyes that seemed always gazing into futurity and distance saw many happenings of the present invisible to most folk.

Professor Wilson and Hamilton-Cox had wandered away through the garden discussing Oxford and modern thought. Miss Pursehouse, Lambert, and old Miss Jenkins were talking and laughing, and seemingly quite happy and content. Said Miss Morgan, looking round:

"Every one's busy, like the children in the Sunday-school story, and we've no one to play with; shall we go for a walk in the village, and I'll show you the church and the pump and the other antiques?"

"Certainly, I'll be delighted," said Charles, rising.

"Then com'long," said Miss Morgan, "Pamela, I'm taking Mr Bevan to show him the village and the creatures that there abound. If we're not back by six, send a search-party."

Rookhurst is, perhaps, one of the prettiest and most quaint of English villages, and the proudest. If communities receive attention from the Recording Angel, amidst Rookhurst's sins written in that tremendous book will be found this entry, "It calls itself a town."

"Isn't the village sweet and sleepy?" said Miss Morgan, as she tripped along beside her companion; "it always reminds me of the dormouse in 'Alice in Wonderland'—always asleep except at tea-time, when it wakes up—and talks gossip. That's the chemist's shop with the two little red bottles in the window, isn't it cunning? The old man chemist doesn't keep any poisons, for he's half blind and's afraid of mixing the strychnine with the Epsom salts. His wife does the poisoning; she libels every one indifferently, and she gave out that Pamela was a lunatic and I was her keeper. She was the butcher's daughter, and she married the chemist man for his money ten years ago, hoping he'd die right off, which he didn't. He was seventy with paralysis agitans and a squint, and the squint's got worse every year, and the paralysis agitans has got better—serve her right. That's the butcher's with the one leg of mutton hanging up, and the little pot with a rose-tree in it. He drinks, and beats his wife, and hunts snakes down the road when he has the jumps—but he sells very good mutton, and he's civil. Here comes a queen, look!"

A carriage drawn by a pair of chestnut horses approached and passed them, revealing a fat and bulbous-faced lady lolling on the cushions, and seen through a haze of dust.

"A queen?" said Bevan; "she doesn't look like one."

"No? She's the Queen of Snobs; looks as if she'd come out of a joke-book, doesn't she? and her name is—I forget. She lives in a big house a mile away. That's a 'pub.' There are seven 'pubs' in this village, and this is a model village—at least, they call it so; what an immodel village in England must be, I don't know. There's a tailor lives in that little house; he preaches in the tin chapel at the cross-roads. I heard him last Sunday."

"You go to Chapel?"

"No, I'm Church. I heard him as I was passing by—couldn't help it, he shouts so's you can hear him at 'The Roost' when the wind's blowing that way—You religious?"

"Not very, I'm afraid."

"Neither'm I. That's the doctor's; he's Church and his wife's Chapel. She has a sister in a lunatic asylum, and her aunt was sister of the hair-cutter's first wife, so people despise her and fling it in her teeth. We can raise some snobs in the States, but they're button mushrooms to the toadstools you raise in England. Pamela is awfully good to the doctor's wife just because the other people are nasty to her. Pamela is grit all through. The parson lives there—a long, thin man, looks as if he'd been mangled, and they'd forgot to hang him out to dry. How are you, Mrs Jones? and how are the rheumatics?" Miss Morgan had paused to address an old lady who stood at the door of a cottage leaning on a stick.

"That's Mrs Jones; she has more enquiries after her health than any woman in England. Can you tell why?"

"No."

"Well, she has a sort of rheumatics that the least damp affects, and so she's the best barometer in this part of the country. She's eighty, and has been used to weather observation so long, she can tell what's coming—hail, or snow, or rain to a T. That old man leaning on the gate, he's Francis, the village lunatic, he's just ninety; fine days he crawls down to Ditchingham cross-roads to wait for the soldiers coming back from the Crimea. I call that pathetic, but they only laugh at it here. He must have waited for them when he was a boy and seen them marching along, and now he goes and waits for them—makes me feel s'if I could cry. Here's a shilling for you, Francis; Miss Pamela is knitting you some socks—good-day—poor old thing! Let's see now, those cottages are all work-people's, and there's nothing beyond, only the road, and it's dusty, and I vote to go back. Why, there's that old scamp of a Francis making a bee-line for the 'Hand in Hand'; n'mind, I won't have to wear his head in the morning."

Miss Morgan chatted all the way back uninterruptedly, disclosing a more than comprehensive knowledge of all the affairs of the village in which she had lived some ten days or less.

At the gate of "The Roost" she stopped suddenly. "My, what a pity!"

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing; only I might have called and seen Mrs Harmer. She has such a pretty daughter, and I'd have liked you to have seen her, for she's the image of Fanny Lambert." She stared full at Mr Bevan as she said this, and there was a something in her tone and a something in her manner, and a something in her glance that made Charles Bevan lose control of his facial capillaries and blush.

"Fanny's cooked him," thought the lady of the blue eyes as she retired to dress for dinner. "But what in the nation did he mean by saying he did not know her?"

"What the deuce made her say that in such a way?" asked Mr Bevan of himself as he assumed the clothes laid out for him by the careful Strutt.