She was the niece of that Timothy Farleigh of whom mention has been made, the father of the two little girls who had died of diphtheria. Timothy’s brother had worked as head carpenter upon the Upworthy estate, but he had died when Agatha was fifteen. Since then the girl had been educated by Lady Selina, and regarded by her as a deserving object. Agatha had good looks and a quick intelligence, which carry a young woman far upon any road. American slang, so descriptive, might have summed her up as a “live wire.” Also, she was discreet, a creature of odd reserves. Lady Selina had come to reckon her as a machine. As a machine Agatha inspired respect. Lady Selina was not addicted to peering beneath the surface of things and people. Her easy habit of mind constrained her to move in what she devoutly called an “appointed” groove. All her servants were well paid, and they remained long in her service because she made them comfortable and disdained espionage. They kept their places in every sense of the word.

Agatha carried a small head upon slender, shapely shoulders. Out of a too pale face glowed a pair of fine grey eyes, set well apart, and indicating breadth of vision. Much to Lady Selina’s satisfaction she wore neat skirts and coats, and serviceable boots. She “did” her hair simply; she kept her nails and teeth clean. Hitherto, intercourse with her mistress had been without friction, and for this blessing Lady Selina thanked herself. There might be moments when the lady of the manor caught a glimpse of the real Agatha, disconcerting moments which aroused apprehension. And then Lady Selina wondered vaguely whether it was wise to give village girls “advantages.” Agatha had a trick of opening expressive eyes too wide when Lady Selina might be laying down her law upon some parochial matter. Did criticism lurk behind this unabashed gaze? Again, the girl read the papers when she might have been better employed with her needle. On the other hand, Agatha’s good memory might be reckoned an asset. She could, and did, put her mistress right upon small matters of fact, tactfully refraining from comment, never obtruding advice. Such qualities carried with them defects. Lady Selina listened to no village tittle-tattle, but she had learnt from Cicely that Agatha Farleigh was a suffragist. When informed of this, the great lady perpetrated a sniff and the austere remark: “I have done much for Agatha, but if she undoes my stitches I cannot hold myself responsible.”

“Take down a letter,” commanded Lady Selina.

Agatha went to her typist’s desk and picked up a stenographer’s notebook and a pencil.

“To John Gridley, The Home Farm.”

Agatha repeated the words. Lady Selina went on in a tone significantly incisive:

“This letter must be typed, copied, and posted without fail to-night.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

Lady Selina sat very upright, but quite unaware that she was frowning. Perhaps Agatha divined that she was oppressed by the weight of her responsibilities.

“John Gridley:—After what happened this afternoon my mind is made up—the Extons must go——”

Agatha dropped her notebook. Lady Selina started, much discomposed. Agatha said deprecatingly:

“I beg pardon, my lady.”

Lady Selina drew a swift inference.

“I had forgotten. The Extons are friends of yours, eh?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Ah!” She paused for an instant. The habit of years enjoined silence, but she was upset and sensible, also, that she had upset her typist. And for this she was sincerely sorry. It might be worth while to speak confidentially to Agatha, who exercised some influence in the village. Her voice became gentle again, as she leaned back in her chair.

“Do you happen to share John Exton’s political views?”

Agatha, taken aback, temporised:

“His political views, my lady?”

“You know what I mean, Agatha. John Exton, to put it mildly, is a Socialist. Not ten minutes ago, in this very room, he aired his views upon property for my benefit. It is true that I asked him to do so. Of course he is at liberty to hold such views. And I am glad that I know where he stands. Now I wish to know where you stand.”

Agatha answered respectfully enough:

“I do share some of his views.”

Lady Selina made a gesture. Agatha’s reserves might exasperate her, but she respected them. After all, if the girl did her work properly, what did her views matter? She sat up briskly.

“Where was I?”

Agatha glanced at her notebook.

“The Extons must go.”

“Yes, Ephraim will leave his farm a year from to-morrow. Be perfectly pleasant with the old man, and make him see that I am acting in the interests of a property which I regard as a sacred trust! Underline sacred trust, Agatha. Lord Wilverley, if the Extons accept the inevitable in the proper spirit, might at a word from me give Ephraim one of his smaller farms. He is quite incapable of doing justice to a large one.”

At this point a strangled sob escaped Agatha. Lady Selina suddenly beheld, in perspective, a weeping community, bewailing the loss of the Extons. Their lamentations filled the air.

“Are you in pain, Agatha?”

“Oh, my lady, of course I am. It’s terrible. And that I—I—their friend—should—should——”

She became inarticulate with distress.

“Come, come, you silly girl. Control yourself! Type and copy that letter, and I’ll sign it.”

“No.”

The devastating monosyllable threw Lady Selina off her balance. It outraged her sense of decorum and deportment. Metaphorically, the solid rock of tradition and custom seemed to give way; she positively foundered in quicksands. Gaspingly, she exclaimed:

“What! You refuse——”

Agatha laid down her notebook and pencil.

“Yes, my lady.”

Lady Selina rose. She confronted the rebel with dignity; her voice betrayed no emotion whatever. Inwardly, her mind had become kaleidoscopic. She beheld a sort of cubist picture, a futurist nightmare compounded of bits of history, mangled fragments. Marie Antoinette on a tumbril—Charles the Martyr, without his head—Margaret of Anjou in a forest—Nero fiddling when Rome was blazing——

“You must go, too, Agatha. I am sorry to lose your services. I shall be happy to give you an excellent character. But I cannot keep you here. Those who are not with me are against me.”