Harvest Moon

9

Harvest Moon

    It was a notable harvest moon that year: full, round and almost an orange shade. It was Mrs Fred Watts’s expressed opinion that it was the sort of moon that had a direct and generally deleterious influence upon the human cerebellum. Words to that effect. Well, it were full as full for a clear week, and oranger nor she had ever seen it since that summer they had half the ricks in the county ablaze, and, look what come of it! Possibly Mr Humphreys could have named the precise logical fallacy wherein an argument used its own conclusion to prove itself, but he did not bother to do so to Mrs Fred. And the rest of Lower Nettlefold was pretty much of her opinion: ’alf the county ’ad gone dotty. Including them what was old enough to know better.

    The first happening of note that September was the return of Lord Sleyven to Maunsleigh with Tonkins and a string of horses. Any specific dottiness in this occurrence, other than anyone’s wishing to cross the sea to Ireland merely to buy horses, was not apparent to the county at large, but Bates certainly noticed the unusual eagerness with which his Lordship fell upon the great pile of personal mail which was waiting for his perusal. Since Mr Crayshaw had been deputed to open all his Lordship’s mail in the Earl’s absence and since Mr Bates had had a privy word with the young secretary the butler was aware that no particularly good news awaited his master. Unless you counted an invitation to Mrs Patterson’s so-called “Harvest Ball” as such.

    However, two days after Lord Sleyven’s return something very unusual did occur at Maunsleigh. Whether you considered it dotty, precisely, would no doubt have depended on your point of view. The Earl and Colonel Langford were breakfasting rather later than was their habit, the Colonel yawning over a paper, when Bates entered and gave a slight cough. “My Lord, may I have a word?”

    “Yes; what is it, Bates?”

    Bates cast what in a lesser man would have been an anguished look at Colonel Langford.

    “Is it private?” said his master in astonishment.

    The Colonel glanced up from his paper. “Eh?”

    “Not precisely, my Lord,” said Bates. “If you will forgive my saying so, I would not wish to give the wrong impression.”

    The Colonel laid his paper down. “Eh?”

    The Earl took a deep breath. “Trouble in the servants’ hall, is that it?”

    “No, indeed, my Lord, nothing like that. It is just that you have a visitor.”

    “Oh? Well,” he said. glancing at the clock on the mantel, “perhaps you could put him in the library and— No?”

    “If it’s an emergency, Jarvis, go, for the Lord’s sake,” said the Colonel.

    “It is not an emergency, my Lord.”

    “I’ll leave the room,” said the Colonel, looking wry. He rose.

    “Sit down,” said his old friend with a frown. “Bates, believe me when I say I have no secrets whatsoever from Colonel Langford.”

    “No, but dear man, if Bates don’t care to speak of it before me—”

    “Sit down, Charles,” he repeated grimly. “Kindly tell me who it is, Bates.”

    “It is Miss Burden, sir, with a man. A low fellow.”

    “Oh, Lor’,” said the Colonel, biting his lip. “Uh—now, don’t fly up in the boughs, Jarvis, it’s all my fault,” he said hastily, as the Earl got up with a thunderstruck expression on his face. “I promised her I’d tell you of it first thing, and what with all the talk about the horses and—er—everything else on my mind, it went right out—”

    “Yes,” he said evenly, going over to the door.

    “—of my head,” ended the Colonel limply as master and man vanished. He looked at the closed door. After a minute he smiled. “Oh, well: silver lining!” he said to himself.

    When the Earl went into the library Miss Burden was standing in profile to him, staring up at a large portrait of the first earl which hung above the elaborate marble mantel. Her small nose was wrinkled in an expression of distaste.

    “Yes,” he said evenly. “Very like me, isn’t he?” He saw her take a deep breath before she turned to face him. “Good morning, Miss Burden,” he added politely.

    “Good morning. Yes, he is. Very. Those wigs must have been hot.”

    “Er—yes.”

    “Is it the Gainsborough?” asked Miss Burden on a wistful note.

    “Er—no. Most certainly not. Wrong period. And—er—wrong sex: the Gainsborough is a lady.”

    “Oh.”

    “Miss Burden, if you have come to see the pictures, I shall have Mrs Fendlesham show—”

    “No, don’t be ridiculous,” she said, scowling. “And I know I should not be here, so do not bother to say it. But Colonel Langford has let me down horribly, so I had to come. I thought he would. Though I suppose he has other things on his mind.”

    “Yes, indeed: I apprehend that he and your sister-in-law are to be married. May I say that I am very glad to hear it?”

    “Um—thank you. We—we all like him.”

    He nodded coolly. “So how has he let you down, Miss Burden?”

    “It’s about Mr Hutton.”

    Lord Sleyven’s jaw sagged. “Hutton? What in God’s name do you know of Hutton?”

    “Well, he’s here.”

    “He— The ‘low fellow’ who accompanied you,” he said limply. “I gather Bates would not let him sully the carpet?”

    “It is very fine,” said Miss Burden, looking at it admiringly. “But the weather’s very dry: his boots aren’t actually muddy. I’m not sure if it was specifically the carpet or just the appearance he presents. I did not like to ask him,” she said in a confidential tone, “but do they pay the batmen so very little, in the Army?”

    “Very little indeed,” he said with a sigh, passing his hand across his forehead. “Miss Burden, how in the name of all that’s wonderful did you come across Hutton?”

    Miss Burden took a deep breath. “I was in the cathedral, waiting for a funeral.”—Lord Sleyven stared at the black ribbon on her bonnet.—”And he came in to rest has weary bones and—and we got talking.”

    “Y— Wait,” said the Earl, passing his hand across his forehead again. “Why the Devil— I beg your pardon. Why are you deputizing for him, Miss Burden?”

    Miss Burden went very red. “Please do not take that tone, sir, it is not the poor man’s fault, at all: he came up here alone and your servants turned him away. Though I’m not saying it was Bates,” she added honestly. “He came to the back door.”

    “The back door? I’m astounded he even got past the lodge-keeper!”

    “Of course he did not!” said Miss Burden crossly. “He— Never mind.”

    “I see,” he said with a sigh. “So having been turned from my door into the frosty night—I trust it was?—he managed to drag himself on faltering feet to your threshold and there threw himself upon your mercy. –And has no doubt been eating you out of house and home ever since,” he noted grimly.

    “He does eat a lot,” said Miss Burden honestly. “But he’s worked wonders in our garden.”

    “For God’s sake!” he said, staring. “How long has he been with you?”

    “I suppose it’s about two months.”

    The Earl took a deep breath. He rang the bell violently. Bates himself appeared, almost on the instant. “Bates, get that fellow who accompanied Miss Burden in here, would you? Without his boots.”

    “Yes, my Lord,” said the butler, eyeing Miss Burden.

    “He is wearing a respectable pair of grey woollen stockings that belonged to my late brother,” she said reassuringly.

    “Yes, Miss Burden,” said Bates weakly, tottering out.

    “Congratulations, Miss Burden, you have succeeded in discomposing my butler,” said the Earl calmly.

    “Mm,” she agreed, biting her lip, rather. “I did not mean to.”

    “I grasped that! –Look, seriously, you should not have come.”

    “Rubbish,” said Miss Burden grimly.

    He had no time to argue, for Bates here led in a sheepish-looking Hutton. Without his boots. And in the aforesaid stockings. “’Morning, Colonel, sir,” he said, coming to attention.

    “Good morning, Hutton,” said his Lordship calmly. “I trust you are not here in the expectation of my being willing or able to use my influence with the odd Exciseman or Runner?”

    “No, I ain’t!” he said indignantly. “And what’s more, I wouldn’t! And anyroad, since we done for Boney, my brother-in-law says the bottom’s fallen out of the smu—” He stopped.

    “And besides,” said Miss Burden on an anxious note, “he knows that you would never condone wrong-doing.”

    “Miss Burden,” said the Earl with a sigh, “there is no need to protect Hutton from me.”

    Hutton sniffed slightly.

    “There: I think that proves it?” said his Lordship, raising his eyebrows.

    “Um—wuh-well, he—he wishes to apply for a position.”

    His Lordship suddenly perceived that Miss Burden was very nervous. He swallowed hard. “I see. But a man will always wish to speak for himself, in such a situation.”

    “That’s right, Miss Burden,” agreed Hutton. “I was going to. Only now I can see the Colonel’s fine as fivepence, I think I won’t bother.”

    “Don’t be a damned fool, man,” said Jarvis irritably. “I told you when you were discharged that you would always have a position with me, should you need it. So what went wrong on Jersey? –Just a moment. I do beg your pardon, Miss Burden: please sit down.”

    “Thank you,” said Miss Burden, sinking onto a gold brocade sofa. “It is a long walk.”

    The Earl turned puce. “You let her WALK?” he shouted.

    “Now, don’t you get your dander up, Colonel, sir! The chota mem’s used to walking all over the country, she made nothing—”

    “Hutton, be careful,” he warned.

    “Colonel, sir, what with Colonel Langford a-going and forgetting about us, we couldn’t think what else to do, but come! And the ladies ain’t got no carriage. And I said to ’er, I’ll nip over to Nettlebend Farm and borrow Mr Lumley’s donkey-cart, only—um—well, I should of, that’s all,” he ended in a much subdued tone.

    “You should, indeed.”

    “Lord Sleyven, that would have meant Hutton’s travelling more than the distance to Maunsleigh before we had even started! It was manifestly absurd.”

    Lord Sleyven gave his former servant a hard look.

    “Miss Burden, I’m sorry,” said Hutton miserably. “I was remiss, that’s what.”

    “Yes,” said his Lordship evenly, ringing the bell again. “And so was I: I should have asked you to sit down and offered you refreshment immediately, Miss Burden. I do beg your pardon. –Bates, a tray of tea for Miss Burden, please.”

    “Thank you. Tea would be welcome,” admitted Miss Burden weakly.

    “And something to eat,” he said to Bates with a frown.

    “Of course, my Lord.”

    “I am truly used to walking,” said Midge limply as the door closed behind the butler.

    “That, however, does not excuse Hutton. Or myself. –Go on. What went wrong on Jersey?”

    “Nothing, really, Colonel. Um—sorry: your Lordship. Nothing, really. Not to say, wrong.”

    The Earl winced. “Whose chickens did you steal?”

    “I never! Um—well, nobody ever knowed it was me, and it was only the one,” he admitted lamely. “No—uh—well, seemed like there wasn’t no place there for me, Colonel! They were all busy, and no real job for me to do, and... It was all neat and tidy and small, like,” he said in a wondering tone.

    “I see.”

    “I think the experience is not uncommon, when a person has travelled widely, and comes back to the place he was born,” ventured Miss Burden.

    “Yes,” agreed the Earl.

    “So I come,” Hutton explained. “Only I can see as I’m not needed, and I kind of knew it must be a bl—a ’uge great mansion, only I never sort of thought. And it’s too smart for me. So what I’ll do, with your permission, Colonel, sir, I’ll just take a howa-khana, and maybe a look round the zemindaree, and then I’ll sling me ’ook again.”

    “You’ll do no such thing. I am in want of a valet: you may ask Colonel Langford if it is not so.”

    “Well, ’e said you was, yes,” admitted Hutton.

    “I noticed—” Miss Burden broke off, flushing.

    “Yes?” said the Earl.

    “I was only going to say, that I noticed at that silly dance at Plumbways that Colonel Langford’s neckcloth was more—more elaborate—no, I think I mean more intricate,” said Miss Burden, now a glowing peony shade, “than yours. But I don’t know anything about gentlemen’s fashions!” she added hurriedly.

    “You are right, however,” he agreed calmly. “I think that was that evening that Charles referred to my neckcloth as a Pitfall.”

    Hutton choked.

    “Oh,” said Miss Burden blankly.

    “Not that Hutton can tie a Waterfall, either,” he noted drily.

    “Oh!” said Miss Burden. “I see! It’s one of those silly names—” She broke off.

    “Indeed it is,” he said gravely.

    “Pitfall, eh?” said Hutton, rolling it round on his tongue. “—Likes his joke, does Colonel Langford,” he explained to Miss Burden.

    “Mm, so you’ve said,” she murmured uneasily.

    “I do not, however, desire Waterfalls,” said the Earl calmly, “as I have no aspirations to dandyism. And I am in want of a valet,” he said, as the tea was brought in, “so the post is yours, Hutton, if you desire it.”

    “Thank you, Colonel, sir. Your Lordship, I mean. But I dunno that I can do it,” he said frankly.

    “Would you supply him with a suit of clothes, Lord Sleyven?” asked Miss Burden.

    “Yes.–Thank you, I shall pour,” he said as the footman murmured an offer.

    Miss Burden watched limply as the Earl sat down in a chair opposite hers, saying: “Do you take your tea strong or weak, Miss Burden?”

    “Um—weak, for preference. Thank you,” she said limply as he poured and offered milk and sugar.

    “I would, in fact, supply him with several suits of clothes.” He passed her a plate of sandwiches.

    “Thank you. Well, I’m glad to hear it. Um—when you say suits...”

    “From the skin out, Miss Burden,” he said with a sigh.

    “Good. –I suppose there is always a kettle on the boil in a great house like this.”

    “Er—yes. I suppose so.”

    Miss Burden ate her sandwich hungrily and then said: “It would be a good place, Mr Hutton.”

    “Too grand, though, Miss Burden. Just you look around you,” he replied glumly.

    “Ye-es... Is this Aubusson?” she said abruptly to the Earl.

    “No. But I am told there are some fine Aubusson tapestry hangings in the smaller yellow salon; should you like to see them?”

    Looking grim, Miss Burden replied: “No. I am here solely on Mr Hutton’s account. Thank you,” she added lamely.

    “If it’s smaller, is there another yeller room, sir?” asked Hutton suddenly.

    “Yes. Huge and hideous. Very formal.”

    “There you are,” he said instantly to Miss Burden.

    “Yes, um, but Mr Hutton, your—your former master’s circumstances may have changed, but he—he is still the same man,” she said, swallowing. Not sandwich.

    “Ye-es... Now, let’s say you keep on Bluebell Dell after Mrs Burden marries Colonel Langford, then you’d need a man to help you round the pl—”

    “But Bluebell Dell belongs to Mrs Burden, not to me!” said Midge desperately, going very red and not looking at the Earl at all.

    “You could live in it, though, Miss Burden!”

    “I could not live in it, because I have no money,” she said grimly. “And certainly none with which to pay you a fair wage.”

    “No, but look ’ere: say I plant up the garden with vegetables—”

    “That will do,” said the Earl grimly. “Stop trying to force yourself upon Miss Burden.”

    “I’d take him if—if I could afford to,” she gulped.

    “Miss Burden, you need neither explain nor justify your decision to myself or to Hutton,” he said in a colourless tone.

    “Not to you, no,” said Miss Burden tightly.

    Jarvis found he was taking a deep breath. Largely in order to suppress the impulse to shake the pair of them until their teeth rattled in their respective stubborn heads, he rather fancied. “We shall work something out,” he said grimly to Hutton.

    “Yessir!” he said, coming smartly to attention.

    “Not, however, if you mean to salute me when we are both out of uniform.”

    “That’s ’is idea of a joke,” said Hutton in a hoarse aside to Miss Burden.

    “Mm,” agreed Midge uncomfortably, not looking at her host.

    “Meanwhile,” said Jarvis grimly, ringing the bell, “you may get along to the kitchen and ask them to feed you. –I suppose you do require sustenance?” he added acidly.

    Midge eyed Mr Hutton warily but that worthy merely replied stolidly: “Yessir.”

    “Bates, this is Hutton,” said the Earl as the butler reappeared. “My former batman. He will be taking up a position in the household. Please—”

    “Wait!” cried Miss Burden excitedly.

    “Yes?” he said courteously.

    “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” she said, reddening, “but think I have it. What about gamekeeping?”

    “They say that poachers make the best gamekeepers: yes,” he agreed faintly.

    “Colonel, sir, I said: it were one miserable moorghee!”

    “One on Jersey. yes. Something like one thousand birds in India,” he said coldly.

    Hutton glowered.

    “I remember one time we were up in the mofussil—that is up the country,” said the Earl dreamily to Miss Burden, “with a man called McIntosh. Game was plentiful enough in the area, if you knew where to look for it. Anyhow, we set out, you know, and after about a day’s travelling, found a suitable site and made our camp. It was a little late for shooting, so we decided to rise very early the next morning. The which we duly did, taking McIntosh’s Indian servant, but leaving Hutton to look after the camp. We were out with the guns for, I suppose, something like five hours, but there was nary a sign of game. So we returned to the camp. Whereupon,” he said, extra-dreamy, “Hutton proudly produced a huge pheasant stew.”

    “I only—”

    “He had got up,” said the Earl, ceasing to be dreamy and becoming very dry, “while were still asleep, and bagged most of the game. Meanwhile scaring off the rest.”

    Miss Burden gulped, but after a moment managed to say: “I wonder the shots did not wake you.”

    “Oh, Hutton rarely goes after birds with a gun.”

    “Then in that case,” she said, with a very determined expression on her pink-cheeked face. “he must know a very great deal about game birds, and will make a splendid assistant gamekeeper!”

    “Er—no. I think not. But now I come to think of it, there are many practical matters on the estates with which Shelby—my agent, Miss B— Of course, you must know him,” he said with a tiny smile. “As I was saying, Shelby could do with assistance in many practical matters. In short, the position of foreman or overseer is vacant. Hutton, would you prefer that to valeting me?”

    “If it means real work,” he conceded, scratching his shaven head.

    “Yes. When were you last de-loused?” asked Lord Sleyven baldly. –Miss Burden’s jaw dropped, but Bates preserved his calm.

    “After the ship,” he admitted. “And I did sleep rough on the way here, but clean. Barns and that.”

    “Possibly you may do, then.”

    “I ain’t lousy, and if you think my sister’d let one of them animiles in ’er clean linen sheets, you’ve gone doolally, Colonel! Begging the C—your Lordship’s pardon,” he added hurriedly.

    “So I should hope,” he said coldly. “Bates, if you please, have Hutton fed. And ask Mr Shelby to— No, I shall see him a little later.”

    “I could brush your suits and that, Colonel, as well,” offered Hutton.

    “I think you may be too busy. Oh, and in the case you are worried about your capabilities for the new position,” he said on a wry note, “Mr Shelby will show you your duties and put you in the way of things hereabouts. And kindly bear two points in mind. Firstly, you are no longer in India.”

    “I don’t need no reminding of that, Colonel!”

    “And in the second place, the people in these parts have their own ways, which may seem a trifle feringhee at first,” he said, with a sideways look at Miss Burden. “Don’t try to persuade ’em that the way things are done on Jersey is better.”

    “We got the best dairy cows in the wor—”

    “That is precisely what I mean,” he said coldly.

     “Oh. Right you are, Colonel!”

    Miss Burden waited for the Earl to say that there was a third point, and that was, to use the correct term of address to himself, but he did not.

    “That’s all. Go with Bates,” he said briefly.

    “Yessir, your Lordship! Thank you kindly, me Lord!”

    “Thank Miss Burden: I would never have known you were here,” he said drily.

    “Yessir! Thank you kindly, Miss Burden. And don’t you worry none about the diggin’, because I can get over to Bluebell Dell as easy as nothing and—”

    “Get out.”

    “—do it, when you need it. Colonel, sir, that old Biddle fellow she’s got is useless, he—”

    “Are you deaf?” he said icily.

    “Nossir. Beg pardon, Colonel, sir! Beg pardon, Miss Burden!” Hutton wheeled about smartly and marched himself out.

    “He is unbearable, Bates, but you will find that what passes for his heart is more or less in the right position,” said the Earl coolly.

    “Of course, my Lord,” replied the butler with a smile. He bowed to Miss Burden and went out. As the door closed they heard Mr Hutton begin: “Right, then, Bates, me ’earty, just point me at the kitchen—” And the butler reply: “Mr Bates to you, Mr Hutton. Frederick will conduct you to the kitchen.”

    Lord Sleyven looked expressionlessly at Miss Burden.

    “I must go!” she gasped, jumping to her feet.

    “Yes. But thank you for bringing him, Miss Burden.”

    “It was nothing,” she said grimly. “I think he will do very well, working for Mr Shelby.”

    “Yes. –I shall ring for a carriage. Tonkins will drive you home.”

    “There is no need, Lord Sleyven,” said Miss Burden politely.

    The Earl ignored that, and rang the bell, asking the footman who entered to have the curricle and Tonkins brought round.

    “I’ve never been in a curricle,” she noted.

    “In that case I regret that it would give rise to gossip if I were to drive you myself.”

    “I wouldn’t want—” Miss Burden broke off.

    The Earl said nothing. They waited.

    Eventually she said desperately into the silence: “How many are there?”

    “What?” he asked blankly.

    “Footmen,” she said, turning a fiery red. “That was one I had not seen before.”

    “Er...”

    “I suppose you don’t know. But there must be at least six: there was one that opened the door and another two—yes, two, in the front hall, and then when I was waiting in here, three more came in.”

    “What?” he said, an arrested expression on his face.

    “To do odd jobs,” replied Miss Burden innocently. “One of them adjusted the curtains, and one tidied the desk, and the other one asked me if I should like a fire lit. That was Tim Jeffson, I know him.”

    The Earl took a deep breath.

    “So with the one that came in just now, that makes... Help. Seven.”

    “In that case, Miss Burden, you have seen all but one of Maunsleigh’s complement of footmen,” he said grimly.

    “Oh. Well, I suppose it is a very large house,” she said lamely.

    “Yes.”

    Silence fell. They waited.

    Miss Burden licked her lips nervously. “Where is the Gainsborough?” she croaked.

    “The one you must mean is in my bedroom.”

    “Oh,” she said limply. “It— I mean, is there more than one?”

    “There are two: the group portrait is in the picture gallery. It’s an earlier work, and I find it rather stiff. The full-length portrait is the one in my room: is that the one of which you have heard?”

    “Um—I’m not sure. Mrs Cartwright said it was a portrait, but, um, I don’t think she’s very interested in paintings,” said Midge limply.

    “She cannot be, if you were under the impression that the first Earl in his curled periwig was Lady Caroline Wynton.”

    “That’s a pretty name.”

    “I think so, yes. She was a very pretty girl. Sadly, she is now approximately twice the girth of Bates and about fifteen times as intimidating.”

    “That,” said Miss Burden grimly, “is totally apocryphal, sir.”

    “On the contrary. She is my late cousin’s youngest paternal aunt.”

    “I refuse to believe— Well, not fifteen.”

    “Mm? Oh! Surely your intrepid spirit was not daunted by Bates?”

    “I thought he was terrifying,” replied Miss Burden simply.

    “Had you never met him before?”

    “No.”

    “Ah. –There is no need to count on your fingers, Miss Burden: Lady Caroline Grey, that is her married name, is seventy-two years of age.”

    “I wasn’t—I was only trying to work out if he really could have painted her.”

    “Why should I lie to you?” he rejoined calmly.

    “I thought it might be some sort of a joke,” she said weakly.

    “I see.” He looked hard at her. Miss Burden tried not to flinch. “There is no need to be afraid of me, Miss Burden,” he said mildly.

    “I’m not!” she cried angrily.

    The Earl looked unconvinced.

    She scowled, and looked away. Rather unfortunately, as she looked in the direction of the fireplace, she was immediately confronted by the same Wynton face, albeit in a curled periwig.

    “Yes: damned hot,” he murmured, passing has hand over his bald pate. “Er—Miss Burden, forgive me if this seems an impertinent enquiry, but is the engagement between your sister-in-law and Charles Langford widely known, as yet?”

    “No: he wanted to tell you privately before it was published. –Oh. Do you mean Mr Hutton? Well, the family knows, of course, so—”

    “Don’t explain,” he said with a tiny smile.

    “Oh, thank goodness!” said Miss Burden, suddenly sitting down.

    “Are you all right?” he asked sharply.

    “Yes. I—I thought you were just doing your duty by him: rather like you’re doing your duty by the estates and the people,” she explained, not noticing a thunderstruck expression creeping over his face. “But you do love him, after all.”

    “Could you doubt it?”

    “Yes. I could see that he adores you, of course, but I—I wasn’t sure...”

    “I see,” he said with a little sigh. “You came with him not only to make sure my unlamented cousin’s damned servants let him in, but to make sure that he would be in safe hands.”

    “So?” replied Miss Burden grimly, sticking out her chin.

    “Nothing,” he murmured. “Er... What gave you the notion that I am merely doing my duty by the people and the estates?”

    “Something Mrs Shelby said. –It was entirely proper!” said Midge hastily.

    “Of course,” he agreed without emotion.

    She gave him a baffled look, but as the door opened and a footman announced the carriage, did not speak.

    “Thank you,” said the Earl politely. “Does that make eight?” he asked her unemotionally.

    Taking a deep breath and holding her head up very high, Miss Burden replied coldly: “Good-day, Lord Sleyven. I am glad to know that Mr Hutton has a place.”

    The Earl bowed, with an ironic look in his eye, and left it to the eighth of the Maunsleigh footmen to show her out.

    Miss Burden returned to Bluebell Dell a prey to very mixed feelings indeed.

    For his part, Jarvis Winton also experienced some very mixed feelings. The sojourn in Ireland had not precisely helped him to forget Miss Burden or the unfortunate episode at the strawberry picknick. But it had certainly given him the time to reflect that as she was unsuitable in every way for the position he had offered, it was just as well she wanted none of it. Her appearance today had not given him any reason to revise this opinion: with the straw bonnet and its new-looking black ribbon, she had worn a faded print gown in unflattering shades of tan and yellow. However, her defence of Hutton, and the fact that she had come to Maunsleigh to face him in person, had thrown an interesting light on her character. As, indeed, had the discovery that though she might be intrepid she was scarcely fearless: she had been in a quiver of nerves, he had now realized, throughout; hence the abrupt remarks on the carpet, and the portrait’s wig, and so forth. The Earl found that he was thinking: “Poor little thing,” and frowned the thought away. Miss Burden had many admirable qualities, clearly. That did not mean she was in any way suited— And besides, their two characters would not suit. And besides that again, she had indicated very clearly that she could not care for him.

    There was very much to do at Maunsleigh, so, although he did not manage to put her quite out of his mind, Jarvis did manage to concentrate successfully on other matters for most of the hours in the twenty-four.

    Very naturally Colonel Langford and Mrs Burden, after more than two months of tea parties and whatever the other thing was that Colonel Langford had mentioned in the connection, the which by this time neither of them could recall very clearly, did not consider the announcement of their engagement to indicate that they had gone in the least dotty. On the contrary, it was a fully sane and sensible decision, that two mature persons of such similar tastes and interests should join their lives. Most of those who knew them well would have conceded the point. Though on being apprised of the news the Earl of Sleyven had said, with a cough: “Are you quite sure, old man? After all, it is barely six months since you first met her, is it not?” And Mrs Cartwright had said: “I dare say it’s a good enough match. But if you are doing it for the boys’ sakes—and pray do not tell me it is none of my business, I am aware of that—then I would advise you to think twice.” And Miss Burden had said in a tiny, gruff voice: “Are you absolutely sure, Letty?”

    The affianced pair had replied to these anxious well-wishers that they were very, very sure. To which Lord Sleyven had returned: “Hm. Well, Kendlewood Place is yours. And send those damned boys to school if you ever want to see a pheasant on the preserves.” Mrs Cartwright had replied: “Hmf. Glad to hear it. And if that stubborn sister-in-law of yours refuses to live with you, you may tell her there’s a home for her here.” And Miss Burden herself had said: “Good. He does seem a very nice man. I’m glad.” Still in the small voice, however.

    There was clearly very little point in such a well-matched, mature couple’s delaying the wedding for long after the engagement. So a small engagement party was arranged for the week, coincidentally, of the harvest moon, and the wedding date was set for late October. Avoiding All Hallows’ Eve.

    “Won’t that be rather rushed, Mamma?” said Miss Polly Burden faintly to this decision. To which Mrs Burden replied happily that she was not a belle in her first blush, with trunkfuls of trousseau to prepare! And Kendlewood Place could very well be re-pointed around them. Miss Polly gulped, and nodded mutely.

    Mrs Fred Watts, on hearing of the same decision, was driven to say: “Well, ’e seems a decent gentleman. Though they do say, marry in ’aste, repent at leisure. And I’m sure I ’ope ’e wasn’t a-lookin’ on the moon through glass when ’e gave ’er the ring, acos that is unlucky, if you loike! It’s a orange ’arvest moon, you see. And ’ere: ain’t October too late to be sending them lads off to a foine school?” Miss Humphreys, to whom this speech was addressed, was reduced to a faint smile and an almost inaudible: “I’m sure I could not say.”

    The Colonel had noted airily that Jarvis would have to attend the engagement party, or the whole county would speculate as to the reason for his absence. The Earl had replied in a hard voice: “Thank you for that aperçu, Charles.” Colonel Langford had said nothing more, but he had smiled to himself once he was alone.

    Miss Burden, in a shaken voice, had pointed out to her sister-in-law that they could not possibly afford to feed all the people on Letty’s list—even supposing they could squeeze them into the house. And possibly Letty had overlooked it, but people would expect wine! Mrs Burden had kissed her cheek and replied: “Dearest, it may not be quite the thing, but Colonel Langford will take care of it all. And do not worry about the wedding: Uncle Franklin has sent me a draft on his bank.”

    “To throw away on a wedding breakfast?” gasped Midge.

    “Er—well, I confess I am not precisely sure of what he intends me to throw it away on! But I shall throw away only a part of it on a wedding breakfast: the rest will go on my bride-clothes!” said Mrs Burden with a laugh.

    Miss Burden had smiled weakly, and nodded.

    So the list was finalized, the invitations went out, Bluebell Dell was scoured from tip to toe for the engagement party, new jackets were procured for all three Burden boys, with the promise that they might absent themselves from the proceedings after they had eaten, a fawn silk, courtesy, it must be admitted, of Uncle Franklin, was hastily made up for Miss Burden and a pale blue muslin for Miss Polly, dozens and dozens and dozens of eggs were procured—Cook having declared it should be meringues if she bust herself—Miss Humphreys’s best china and good silver were brought to supplement Letty’s, and all was in readiness for the engagement party. Except for—

    “Cook, we cannot possibly, for we have no punchbowl!” gasped Miss Burden.

    “But Miss Burden, it be ’arvest, folks expect a noice punch at ’arvest toime!” protested Mrs Jackley.

    “Even gentlefolks?” said Midge weakly.

    Especially gentlefolks, it appeared. Cook favoured her with Lady Ventnor’s cook's report on how many glasses of Sir William’s special harvest punch had been consumed at the Nettlefold Hall harvest dinner, last year. Miss Burden gulped.

    “I don’t suppose Miss ’Umphreys would ’ave a punchbowl?”

    “No, she wouldn’t!” said Midge with feeling.

    Mrs Jackley revealed sadly that the Waldgraves didn’t, neither, for she had asked Mrs Waldgrave's cook already.

    “We shall have to do without punch,” said Midge firmly.

     “Um—maybe Mrs Burden could ask the Colonel.”

    “I am sure he would buy her any number of punchbowls, he is dotty enough upon her,” replied Miss Burden unguardedly—it had been a trying few weeks—“but if you mean anything along the lines of that silver bath that I seem to recollect seeing at Nettlefold Hall, I doubt very much that any such may be procured from nearer than London; and even there, one would probably have to place an order with the silversmith.”

    “Ask Lady Ventnor?”

    “No,” said Midge, turning puce.

    “Um... I got it! Mrs Burden, she could ask the Colonel to borrow one from Maunsl—”

    “NO!” shouted Miss Burden. “We shall not have punch, and I do not wish to hear another word upon the subject!”

    “Ar,” said Mrs Jackley to herself, watching Miss Burden's retreating back. “There be one or two more in these ’ere parts what’s pretty dotty on one or two more, ask me!”

    The guests had all arrived, the little house was filled to bursting, and sherry, Madeira, ratafia and such-like (supplied by Colonel Langford) and lemonade and orgeat (supplied by Cook) were flowing. And Colonel Langford had just forcibly prevented the sherry’s flowing in the direction of Master George Burden, when—

    “What is that?” gasped Miss Burden, as Harbottle and the helpful Mr Hutton, who had appointed himself semi-official major-domo to the occasion, staggered in under it.

    “My dear, your Mrs Jackley must have found a punchbowl after all!” hissed Miss Humphreys, as the beaming Colonel Langford strode up to it, tapped it resoundingly with a ladle, and called for silence. Mr Waldgrave, also beaming, stepped forward to make the announcement—and to ask Harbottle and Hutton to see that everybody's glasses were filled, in order to raise them to the happy couple. So Miss Burden could not reply. She remained, however, in a dazed state, her eyes fixed upon the giant punchbowl, as glasses were rapidly filled, Mr Waldgrave made not merely an announcement but a positive speech, and the toast was drunk. The monstrous thing was not simply silver: oh, no. Gold. Definitely not tarnish, or the effect of the unaccustomed number of candles in their front parlour, or... Added to which, it was the most elaborate creation she had ever seen: smothered in trailing vines and gambolling cupids, and supported, why was not clear, by what seemed to be two lions or possibly tigers or panthers, with the handles, though such was a misnomer, formed by two... Nymphs?

    “Observe the Bacchantes forming the handles: a tasteful touch,” murmured Mr Humphreys in her ear at this moment.

    Midge jumped sharply. “Mr Humphreys, it is the most elaborate— And look at the size of it!” she hissed.

    Mr Humphreys's eyes twinkled, but he replied staidly: ”Very fine. Silver gilt.”

    “Very fine? It is the most hideously ornate thing I ever laid eyes on! And where did it come from?”

    Mr Humphreys merely looked drily at Mr Hutton, at the precise moment ladling out further helpings of punch for Sir William and Mr Somerton, and did not speak.

    “He cannot have!” gulped Miss Burden.

    Mr Humphreys shrugged slightly.

    Miss Humphreys, in the general hubbub, had missed most of their conversation, but she caught this, and gasped: “Oh, do you think the punchbowl came from Maunsleigh, Powell?”

    “I can certainly not think of anywhere else within five counties where you would find an item of that quality,” said Mr Humphreys in a detached voice.

    “It is the most splendid thing!” she gasped.

    “Oh, quite,” said a cool, deep voice from behind them.

    Miss Burden and Miss Humphreys both gasped, but Mr Humphreys, who had been aware of the Earl's making his way through the press towards them, remained unmoved. “German work, I collect, Lord Sleyven?”

    “Quite. The lid,” he said, with a mocking look in his eye as it rested on Miss Burden, “is even finer. Bacchus with his chariot: two horses only. I collect it made the piece too heavy for Hutton and Harbottle to carry, however.”

    “If Cook asked Hutton to request the loan of it, I can assure you that it was against my express orders,” said Miss Burden tightly.

    “Oh, I was glad to get it out of the house,” replied the Earl affably. “In fact I was hoping never to see it again.”

    Miss Burden, her mouth very tight, turned on her heel and left them without a word.

    “Buh-but it is a splendid piece,” faltered Miss Humphreys.

    Jarvis jumped. “Oh—well, yes, Miss Humphreys. An example of the finest German Baroque work. But far too ornate for my taste, I fear.”

    This was the only time that Lord Sleyven and Miss Burden were observed to have speech together during the engagement party. The sympathetic onlookers could not decide whether it were because she was avoiding him, or merely that she had duties to perform. Or perhaps the Earl had simply not had time to make another opportunity, for he had spoken so kindly to everyone! The elderly cousins, Mrs Hunter and Mrs Kinwell, were optimistically of the latter opinion. Mr Platt was not so sure. Miss Platt wished to agree with her sister and cousin but found she could not, alas. And Miss Somerton said frankly to her friend: “Polly, I confess I know not what he is playing at! Surely he must realize that if he does not make a push to speak to your aunt she will conclude that he does not care, after all? Wouldn’t you think that a man of his age must realize it?” To which Miss Polly returned dubiously: “Maybe he doesn’t care. Though Mamma and I both thought it was so.” Miss Somerton hastily assured her that it must just be that he had not known how to approach Miss Burden, in such a crowd.

    Mrs Fred Watts had got the whole story, whether from Miss Harbottle, Mrs Jackley or Mr Hutton. She noted darkly, leaning upon her counter: “It’s that orange ’arvest moon. Droives folks dotty, yer see.”

    “Then why don’t it droive ’im dotty in the direction of ’er?” cried Mrs Jackley angrily.

    “Ar, but it does. Acos ’e come, di’n ’e?”

    “’E ’ad to come, Mrs Fred, ’e’s the groom’s old friend, or are you goin' dotty yerself?” returned Cook sourly.

    “The thing is,” explained Mrs Fred confidentially: “Miss Burden ain’t admitting to ’erself as she fancies ’im.”

    “You’re right, there! What’s more, she ain’t admitting it to ’im, neither! Which in my experience—though of course I’ve only buried two ’usbands,” said Mrs Jackley with awful irony, “generally ’elps, some! –Orange ’arvest moons, my eye,” she muttered.

    Mrs Fred merely returned smugly: “You wait, Mrs Jackley. There’s the ’arvest ball at Verne Lea to come.”

    Cook had come into the shop with the intention of informing Mrs Fred that there was a hen to have its neck wrung at Bluebell Dell, and if Jimmy were interested she might find him the odd savoury or such left over from the party; but she went away without having delivered this message. She’d wring the scraggy creature's neck herself. It was good for nothing but soup, neither, and who wanted soup, in this warm weather?

    It was, indeed, still gloriously warm. Hot, even. Whether it were the heat or the orange harvest moon even Mrs Fred Watts was never able positively to decide, but whatever it was, Mr Bottomley-Pugh was the next person observed in the environs of Lower Nettlefold to have turned definitely dotty.

    It was true that Mr Vaughan Bottomley-Pugh, though inclined to the view that the blue-legged hens that Pa had had off a Froggy he’d done business with were not Romantick, had encouraged his father. Katerina, silently of the opinion that poor dear Pa had no hope, there, and that the offer could only embarrass Miss Burden, had raised no overt objections. So Mr Bottomley-Pugh, in his spanking-new curricle, had set out in good time to call upon Miss Burden.

    It happened to be a day upon which Colonel Langford had driven Mrs Burden and Polly over to Kendlewood Place—one of many such days, for there was very much to be seen to. On that particular day Mr Hutton had promised to come over and pick the last of them apples for Miss Burden, but his more official duties at Maunsleigh had prevented this, and she was startled, on answering the expected knock at the back door, to find the meek, yellow-brown face of Tonkins looking at her in the Jerseyman’s stead.

    “Mr Hutton is sending me to say, Miss Burden, that he is unable to come today. And please to allow me to pick the apples for you.”

    “But Tonkins, it is a very tall tree. Mr Hutton was going to bring a long ladder.”

    “I have ladder, Miss Burden.”

    So he had: he had brought, in fact, not only a very long ladder but a sturdy stable-lad. The both of them upon a cart. “Well, good,” said Miss Burden. “Will Potts may hold the ladder still for you. And how are you, Will?” she added cheerily.

    Will Potts was fine, and liked his position at Maunsleigh fine, thanks, Miss Burden. And if the 'orse and Mr Tonkins’s pony might have a bite of hay—

    “Burden Missy is not having hay. She is not having horse to need hay, and hold your noise!” ordered Tonkins loudly.

    “Yes, Mr Tonkins. Sorry, Mr Tonkins.”

    “The spotted pony is liking the grass at the gate,” he said severely.

    “There ain’t much left, Mr Tonkins,” replied the boy glumly. “There’s been waggons and I dunno what on that there grass.”

    “Um—yes. The waggons delivered things for the party, and then the guests had carriages. I could fetch the horses a bucket of water, Will!” offered Miss Burden brightly.

    “Miss Burden, you will not be fetching waters. If panee bucket is to be fetched, Will Potts will be fetching.”

    “Er—well, certainly, Will.”

    Will went for the bucket, grinning.

    “I’m afraid I haven’t any oats, either,” said Miss Burden apologetically to Lord Sleyven’s personal groom.

    “Please not to worry, Miss Burden: Maunsleigh nags is not needing oats.”

    “No, of course,” she said, reddening in spite of herself. “Well, there is the tree. But are you quite sure you wish to go up the ladder?”

    Tonkins was quite sure. And after Will Potts had watered the horse and the spotted pony, he duly mounted the ladder. With a basket. And Will Potts holding the ladder steady. And with Miss Burden superintending operations anxiously from below.

    As the old apple tree was at the side of the house and, indeed, so perilously near to the boys’ attic window as to encourage thoughts of climbing out upon it—before Hutton had on his own initiative lopped off a certain branch—Mr Bottomley-Pugh had a very good view of the operation when he arrived some ten minutes after it had commenced.

    There were several versions of what followed. But this, more or less, was Tonkins’s:

    “On the day on which the sun shone and the daring syce was mounted high, high in the tree after the fruit, blushing redly in their ripeness but scarce so red as the blush upon the cheek of the chota memsahib, who was standing far, far below—”

    “Get on with it.”

    “Humblest apologies, oh gharib-parwav, great zemindar. On this day the humble syce from his position high, high in the tree espies from afar the tikka-gharry of the burra box-wallah, Bottomley-Pugh.”

    “Bottomley-Pugh Sahib.”

    “This humble syce stands corrected. Bottomley-Pugh Sahib. Soon—but not as soon as had it been drawn by the huzzoor’s fine horses from across the little ocean—”

    “Get ON with it!”

    “Soon the tikka-gharry pulls in by the gate of the small house of the chota memsahib and the burra box-wallah gets down. ‘Good-day, Miss Burden.’—‘Good-day, Mr Bottomley-Pugh. Here is the humble syce from the burra zemindaree who is picking the ripe fruit for me, high, high in the tree.’ The box-wallah admires the daring of the great zemindar’s humble syce: ‘Ah!’ –Humblest apologies, huzzoor! Then he says: ‘With humblest hopes that you will not take it amiss, Miss Burden, this very undeserving box-wallah, who is not worthy to sweep the dust from before your feet like the lowest of the low, begs to present you with a petition. The humble box-wallah petitions thus: he is the owner of many superfluous hens, poor birds, admittedly: humble birds, indeed: but well plumped out, and good layers, of their kind. Ah, if only they were the most excellent layers of all, the black hens of the great zemindar! But they are all I have, oh most respected chota memsahib, and I beg you to take them, with the greatest respects of this—’”

    “ –humble box-wallah: quite.”

    “I wager they were a mangy lot of half-bred moorghees!” he said quickly.

    “Mm. Did she accept?”

    “Great zemindar, at first the cheek of the chota memsahib is brighter than ever. ‘Oh, worthy box-wallah, I cannot allow you to give me this gift. My brother’s begum is to marry the burra Colonel Sahib of Kendlewood Place and soon we shall have no need of hens.’—‘But the acceptance of this unworthy gift will so gratify the heart of this humble petitioner, oh respected chota memsahib.’ –And so forth and so forth. The humble syce, though he was high, high in the tree, heard it all, great zemindar.”

    “Mm.”

    “So she accepts the gift of the worthy box-wallah. And he says: ‘Ah! You have made me the happiest man in all the length and breadth of the zemindaree of the burra sahib!’”

    “Did he actually— Never mind.”

    “‘They are a dozen French blue-legs and I will send them over direct,’ he says. And the chota memsahib offers her thanks and asks him in to take chai in the moorghee-khana, begging the great zemindar’s pardon, the ladies’ sitting-room. Which, though nothing the chota memsahib could do would be unsuitable, of course, was not highly desirable: for Burden Memsahib and Polly baba were not home.”

    The Earl looked at the scowl upon his partisan syce’s yellow-brown face, and merely sighed, and waved him away.

    Mrs Jackley’s version was somewhat different in kind. Though in its essential facts, not dissimilar.

    “Well, there was only me and Miss Burden at ’ome, for that Jane ’Arbottle, she were out a-courtin’ with McVeigh again. And I said to ’er: ‘On a week-day afternoon?’ And all she would say is, Miss Burden’s give ’er permission, and Mr Lumley, ’e knows. ‘Ho! Permission, is it?’ I says. ‘Well, just you watch as you don’t go a-givin’ out any permissions, Jane ’Arbottle, afore ’is ring’s on your finger!’”

    This touch being much appreciated by her audience, Mrs Jackley refreshed herself with a mouthful or two of cider, and continued: “Well, you could’ve knocked me down with a feather when Miss Burden opens the door and it’s that yeller feller of ’is Lardship’s. Come to pick the apples in place of Mr ‘Utton, is ’is story. So they go on out to the garden and I don’t ’ear nothin’ for a bit, ’cept the yeller feller shouting at that witless Will Potts. Then after a bit Miss Burden comes in a-lookin’ all flushed, and says to me: ‘Cook, ’as we got anything to feed a gentleman on, acos ’ere is Mr Bottomley-Pugh come all the way from Nettleford ’Ouse on a ’ot afternoon.’—‘Lard bless you, Miss Burden,’ says I, ‘it won’t be no bother to rustle up a batch of muffins or it moight be seedy biscuits, acos the stove don’t never get let go out in this ’ouse!’”

    This tribute to her own capacities haying been accorded the respectful murmurs it deserved, Cook refreshed herself again. “Ar. But you’ll never guess what she ups and says then!”

    “Let ’im starve?” suggested a voice from the audience.

    “’E be fat enough already?” suggested another voice.

    “Chicken soup!” choked a wit.

    When the company was over that one, Mrs Jackley was finally able to continue: “‘I care not what it be, Cook, for ’e’s put me in a h’embarrassing position, but I didn't roightly see ’ow to refuse. For ’is ’eart be in the roight place, after all.’ So I says: ‘Lard, Miss Burden, what’s the trouble?’ And Miss Burden, ’er face loike a foire, says: ‘Cook, it is roight-down drefful, acos ’e’s gone and offered me a dozen blue-legged French ’ens!’”

    There was a collective sigh from the audience at this anticipated dénouement of the narrative, and the entire company, Mrs Jackley not excluded, refreshed itself.

    “So I give ’im a pot of tea and a plate of beef sandwiches, for the butter was sweet and it were that soide we ’ad off Mr Lumley. Cut foine, with a smear of my own ’orseradish sauce. And ’e sent out to the kitchen to say ’e never gets nothin’ so good in ’is own ’ouse!”

    This point was politely acknowledged, but with less enthusiasm.

    “And the ’ens come the very next morning,” concluded Cook mournfully. “They’re funny-looking things with blue legs, all roight.”

    “’E’s gone dotty on ’er, that's what,” summed up one, Bessy Puddock, with gloomy relish.

    “Ar. Well, ’e’s a warm man, you know, is old Bottomley-Pugh: she could do worse,” opined Mr Jem Drew, shaking his head judiciously.

    Mr Drew’s opinion was promptly howled down and the company called for another round on the strength of it.

    … “’E’s not wrong, you know, Mrs Jackley,” said Mrs Lumley sadly, shaking her head, on Cook’s reporting all this to her.

    The farmer’s wife was quite a power in the land: though of course Cook had her own position, and a good one. So she replied respectfully but firmly: “I grant you that, Mrs Lumley, and if it were a choice between old Bottomley-Pugh and that there Reverend Butterworth, I’d take ’im, meself! But I’ll tell you, Mrs Lumley, what I wouldn’t say to many: and that is the mere soight of the Lard on ’is ’orse sends shivers down my spoine, and that’s a fact!”

    “Ar,” agreed Mrs Lumley with a sigh. “’E’s a foine man.”

    The two matrons shook their heads slowly.

    And Mrs Lumley concluded: “Can’t say as I’d look twice at old Bottomley-Pugh neither, if the Lard ’ad glanced my way. Only bless us, if ’e is a-glancing, why ain't she encouraging ’im, Mrs Jackley?”

    “You’ll never guess!” reported Mr Lumley, shaking all over. “’E’s popped the question at last!”

    Mr Lumley was, alas, not referring to his betters. And Mr Hutton, though taking a natural interest in the doings of all his fellow human creatures, was not precisely riveted by the saga of Andrew McVeigh and Jane Harbottle. But he replied in the appropriate tones: “Lor’, you don’t say, Mr Lumley!”

    Mr Lumley winked very slowly. “It’ll be this great orange ’arvest moon, that’s what.”

    Mr Hutton replied with great insouciance: “To hear Mrs Fred Watts tell it, it does drive men mad: aye.”

    The two worthies’ eyes met, and they both broke down in horrible spluttering fits.

    The day of the “Harvest Ball” at Verne Lea had come. The moon—according to Mrs Fred—was at its fullest and orangest, and Miss Burden—according to Jane Harbottle—was a-wearing that pale green silk what she had off Mrs Cartwright, and it had made up something lovely. Only if you asked her, it wouldn’t do the trick.

    “What should one expect of a harvest ball?” wondered Miss Burden as the kindly Sir William's carriage dropped them off, rather early, at Verne Lea. “For me, it will have to be festoons of corn stalks and mountains of the fruits of the earth, all bursting with ripeness. And if there be not a giant vegetable marrow or mighty pumpkin suspended from the chandelier, I warn you, I shall throw a conniption out of sheer disappointment.”

    “It is not Harvest Festival,” said Mrs Burden, biting her lip.

    “I expect there will just be lots of flowers, and, um, perhaps leaves,” offered Polly weakly.

    “Leaves interspersed with corn stalks, please!” her aunt corrected sternly.

    Polly gave a smothered giggle.

    “Now that will do,” said Mrs Burden quickly. “And Midgey, you are not to laugh, no matter what the decorations may be.”

    “I expect it will be harvest in name only,” admitted Miss Burden pacifically.

    “Yes, indeed. Though perhaps there will be a harvest punch!” contributed Miss Humphreys brightly.

    Lettice winced, and looked sideways at her sister-in-law, but Midge appeared unmoved. “Yes. well, come along,” she said weakly.

    The ladies went in, deposited their wraps—though the evening was so warm they had, as Miss Humphreys remarked, had little need of them—and proceeded to the ballroom.

    It was festooned with flowers interspersed with leaves and corn stalks.

    “Very tastefully done,” said Mrs Burden gamely. “Er—good evening, Mrs Patterson. We are so delighted to be here. And how lovely it all looks!” she said brightly, determinedly avoiding the eyes of all in her party.

    They were not quite the first to arrive for the ball, but most of the persons present in the ballroom were the Pattersons’ house guests. Mrs Patterson deserted the door—there being no line at the moment for her to receive—to effect introductions. She did not believe the Burdens had met her sister Nettie? –Miss Cornwallis. And her brother, Captain Cornwallis, and his friend, Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham. And...

    There were several more introductions but it must be admitted that the rest did not register as significant. Captain Cornwallis and Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham were admittedly not young. But nor were they accompanied by ladies. So they must be either widowers or bachelors. They were both in naval dress uniform. And as if that were not enough, Captain Cornwallis was tall and devastatingly good-looking, with thick gold curls turning to silver, while Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham was even taller and, if your taste turned to the darkly romantic, even better looking, with his dark hair silvered at the temples, that lean jaw, and long, sea-blue eyes...

    “Help,” concluded Miss Burden numbly as, a bunch of new arrivals being received by Mrs Patterson and her house guests with the sorts of cries of joy that denote old and close acquaintance, they retreated quietly to seats by the wall. “Adonis and Paris in their middle years, would you say?”

    “Really, Midge!” said Mrs Burden with a choke of laughter.

....“I wonder whether Mrs Patterson intends Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham for her sister or Miss Patterson?” said Polly avidly.

    Mrs Burden looked over at the group. Miss Cornwallis, emitting high-pitched squeals of laughter, was coyly shielding her face with her fan, whilst pushing playfully at Commander Sir Arthur's arm. True, the gallant naval officer did not appear impressed, but—

    “I rather think that whatever our hostess may intend, Miss Cornwallis intends the Commander for herself,” she noted drily.

    Polly giggled, and nodded.

    “Mm; but look, Miss Patterson is eyeing them balefully from the head of the receiving line!” hissed Midge.

    So she was! Polly's eyes shone: she nodded very hard.

    “Isn’t it exciting?” said Miss Humphreys simply.

    “Absolutely!” agreed Mrs Burden with a naughty twinkle. “And very soon, no doubt, the Waldgraves will be here...”

    “Lettice, that was very naughty, and positively unmatronly,” said Miss Burden severely, as Polly and Miss Humphreys both collapsed in giggles, the latter pressing her best lace-edged handkerchief tightly to her mouth as she did so.

    “Yes, I am afraid it was!” said Mrs Burden with a happy laugh.

    Miss Burden, though she had not in the least wanted to attend the function at Verne Lea, and to say truth had been feeling very miserable about having to do so—hence the bravado of the remarks as they arrived—looked at her sister-in-law's happy face and smiled very much.

    The arrival of Colonel Langford—as, indeed, Miss Burden had glumly anticipated—signalled the incorporation of the Bluebell Dell party into the Maunsleigh party. The which also included Lady Judith Golightly (the Dean was not present: preparing a sermon, so the story ran), and both her sons, so Polly was happy. Miss Humphreys, included by the kindly Colonel Langford as a matter of course, also appeared happy. Well, she certainly looked at the Earl as if she was happy.

    Whether it was the arrival of the Maunsleigh party that had been the magic signal, or not, was not perfectly clear, but the music now struck up, and those who were come intending to dance, or were so fortunate as to have found partners, or in the case of some, so unfortunate as to have had partners thrust upon them, took their places on the floor. It was a country dance, but waltzes were promised for later. Dr Golightly led Miss Polly out as a matter of course, and Colonel Langford his fiancée. Lady Judith, with a twinkle in her eye, having begged her cousin to spare her, that left two ladies in their little group. Miss Humphreys was just telling Lord Sleyven that she did not dance but it was so very flattering to be asked, when young Mr Golightly positively whirled Miss Burden away from under his Lordship's nose. Miss Humphreys eyed him doubtfully, but he appeared quite composed, and engaged herself and Lady Judith in pleasant conversation about roses and their cultivation: the rose gardens of Maunsleigh had been famed in Lady Judith’s father’s day. So perhaps he had not been about to ask dear Miss Burden, after all?

    When the dance ended Simon Golightly would have led her back to his mother's group, but Midge said quickly: “I shall go and talk to Mrs Cartwright; I have not spoken to her yet tonight.”

    Mrs Cartwright was sitting between two young persons: the young man was her nephew, Mr Peter Lattersby. The girl was introduced as Miss Janey Lattersby. Midge was aware of Mrs Cartwright’s dislike of pet names and abbreviations: she eyed that majestic lady cautiously.

    “The family all call her so,” said Mrs Cartwright on a grim note.

    Miss Janey was a pretty little thing of perhaps nineteen years of age but certainly no more: she had a mop of chestnut ringlets, big hazel eyes, and a scattering of freckles across her up-turned little nose. Her dress was the simplest of muslins, with nary a brooch, bangle or clip about it: as Midge knew that Lady Lattersby spoilt her girls in the mater of dress, she was somewhat surprised, but the anomaly was speedily explained by Mrs Cartwright's saying: “She is not one of my nieces, but Peter’s cousin. Her father is a widower, and she has been living with my sister’s family these past six months.”

    “Aunt Cartwright has very kindly offered to house me while Aunt and Uncle Lattersby and the girls go to Scotland to stay with Lord and Lady Ivo in their castle,” added Miss Janey, sounding quite cheerful about it.

    Mr Golightly had greeted Mr Peter with pleasure at renewing the acquaintance, and bowed politely to Miss Janey. Now he said kindly: “You will find that it is possible to have some jolly times at Lower Nettlefold, Miss Janey, so I would not worry about that if I were you.”

    “No, I’m not,” said Miss Janey calmly.

    At this Mr Golightly blinked, and Miss Burden looked at the apparently meek little Miss Janey with sudden interest.

    “Janey wishes to join your Italian class, Miss Burden. I have said she may, if you will have her,” said Mrs Cartwright on a grim note. “But her Italian is undoubtedly better than yours.”

    “My mamma was an Italian lady, and when she died my Aunt Gianna came to live with us, and brought me up. But as Mamma's family were not gentlefolk,” said Miss Janey in an utterly detached voice, “my Italian is probably not of a very respectable variety.”

    “It will do us all the good in the world, then: none of us has ever heard the language as it is really spoken,” said Midge with her unaffected smile, sitting down beside her.

    “I fear that was utter rubbish: for one thing, she has just spent three years in Rome, with her father,” said Mrs Cartwright majestically. “Janey, what did I say about minding that tongue of yours?”

    “I’m sorry, Aunt Cartwright,” she said gaily. “Yes, well, I have been in Rome: Papa was with the Embassy.”

    “An attaché,” explained Mrs Cartwright.

    “More of a spy, really,” said Miss Janey detachedly, and Mr Golightly was heard to gulp.

    “That is not amusing, Miss,” stated Mrs Cartwright coldly.

    “Well, there is not much opportunity for it, since the war with Bonaparte is ended, but that is my papa's true profession, Miss Burden.”

    “That will do, thank you. Your father is most certainly an attaché now,” said Mrs Cartwright with cold finality.

    “Yes; he’s been sent off to South America. But he said that although it would be an experience, it is an experience that I am at the wrong age for, and he does not wish a daughter of his to end up married to a Catholic Portugee in black bombazine,” said Miss Janey mournfully.

    Mr Golightly gave a frankly fascinated laugh and pulled up a chair. “Would it have to be bombazine?”

    “Possibly not for the actual ceremony, Mr Golightly,” said Miss Janey politely. “But absolutely, after it.”

    Miss Burden had to swallow hard.

    Mr Peter put in from his aunt’s other side: “We’d always thought it was Spanish they spoke over there, y’know, until Uncle Bernard got sent off there.”

    Miss Burden’s lips twitched but she said composedly enough: “I collect it is Brazil your Papa has gone to, Miss Janey?”

    “Yes, of course,” she said primly.

    Midge’s eyes twinkled but she said nothing.

    The next dance striking up, Mr Golightly invited Miss Janey. She accepted with alacrity. Mrs Cartwright pointed out that it was not up to her, Miss: she should refer the gentleman to her chaperone. Miss Janey replied wistfully that she could not see anything wrong with Mr Golightly.

    “That’s enough, thank you. Mr Golightly is an unexceptionable gentleman, and you may certainly dance this dance with him.”

    “I shall bring her straight back, ma’am,” promised Simon with a grin.

    Mrs Cartwright sniffed slightly, but nodded, and the pair of them took the floor.

    “That girl is a Trial,” said Miss Janey’s hostess grimly to Miss Burden.

    “She is certainly a tease!” she replied with a laugh. “But she does not strike me as malicious, dear ma'am.”

    “Hmf. Well, possibly that’s because she’s not one of my sister's girls.”

    “I say, Aunt!” gasped Mr Peter, turning puce.

    Mrs Cartwright eyed him coldly. “Did any one of them intercede for that girl, when your mother told her she could not come up to Scotland? –Do not tell me,” she said, holding up her hand, “for I know the answer. And Craigie Castle is an enormous pile, do not dare to claim there would not have been room for her. –The sole reason that the child was not invited, Miss Burden, was that Lady Ivo was not aware at the time of sending the invitation that she was with the Lattersbys,” she explained, “but my sister made it an excuse to abdicate her responsibilities in that area. As might have been expected.”

    Midge hesitated. But poor Mr Peter was looking so distressed! So she said, as nicely as she could: “Dear ma'am, I do hope you are not relying solely for your facts upon the word of that naughty little object on the dance floor as we speak?”

    Mrs Cartwright eyed her with grim approval. “I was not born yesterday, Miss Burden. But thank you for the inquiry. I am sorry to have to say that I had the whole of it from Phoebe herself.”

    This was Lady Lattersby. “I see,” she said uncomfortably.

    Mrs Cartwright said nothing for a moment. Then she conceded: “The green silk has made up well.”

    Midge pinkened and gave her a tremulous smile. “Yes. I cannot thank you enough—”

    Mrs Cartwright held up a commanding hand. “Nonsense. The stuff was doing no good, mouldering away in my attic. And I believe I asked you not to smother me with thanks?”

    Miss Burden blinked and nodded, and smiled tremulously again. Mrs Cartwright had unexpectedly invited her to tea, sending the Dinsley Airs barouche for her, and when she had got there, had most unexpectedly presented her with three lengths of silk! Claiming that she had no use for them, at her age. Her elderly parlourmaid had confided, showing Miss Burden out, that she suspected they were lengths as Mrs Cartwright had put away for the daughters what she had never had. Miss Burden, blinking very much, had smiled shakily at little old Hawkins and agreed they must be.

    The news of this munificent gift was not yet all round the district, for tonight was the first time Miss Burden had had an opportunity to wear her new gown. But had it been, very likely it would have been blamed on the harvest moon, also. For, as Hawkins had remarked in stunned tones to Miss Burden: “She must like you, Miss.” Midge had concluded that she must, indeed. And had felt considerable remorse for the times she had laughed at the majestic lady behind her back.

    Now she offered kindly to introduce Mrs Cartwright's nephew to some pretty girls, only to find the elderly dame ordering the boy to dance with herself. Midge could see it would embarrass him more for her to refuse than to accept, so she took the floor with him. As the dance ended she said with a twinkle: “Now, instead of going back to your aunt like a proper young lady and gentleman, Mr Lattersby, I propose we roam the room in search of pretty girls to whom I may present you!”

    Mr Peter grinned and disclaimed politely, but allowed himself to be overborne: so Midge towed him away in search of pretty girls. There were not a few present, but as she did not know them all, she had to fall back upon Lacey Somerton. But neither Mr Peter nor Miss Somerton appeared disappointed by this choice.

    Miss Burden sagged slightly and looked around for a quiet corner to which she might escape. But, alas: too late! Mr Somerton, beaming, whether more in approval of Miss Burden's generosity in giving Lacey an eligible partner or in admiration of Miss Burden's bosom in her new low-cut pale green silk even the bosom’s owner could not determine, insisted on leading her onto the floor. He was a vigorous but not elegant dancer, so it was as well it was not a waltz. During the figures he attempted to probe her as to Mr Peter’s position in the Lattersby family and prospects, but she had expected that, and coped quite well.

    Mr Somerton was rapidly followed by a beaming Mr Waldgrave, and then, alas, a glowing Mr Butterworth: there was very little doubt that it was the bosom this time, he looked down it enough. Most unfortunately Mr Butterworth, as it turned out, was accompanied by an old friend from the university, also in Holy Orders, and he got the next. It was a waltz, and the Reverend Mr Braithwaite was an abominable waltzer. Midge foresaw with a doomed feeling that the clerical theme might be continued for some time, for the Waldgraves and Mr Butterworth and his friend were in a group with the Reverend Mr Crittenden from one of the Nettleford parishes, and his brother, another Mr Crittenden in Holy Orders: as yet a curate, but he had hopes. But the alternative seemed to be to suggest that she and Mr Braithwaite sit out after their dance. And Mr Braithwaite had, in addition to sweaty hands, a mind, Miss Burden had very speedily determined, like day-old pease pudding.

    But perhaps she could ask to be taken back to Letty? She looked around in sudden hope: but alas, she could not see her. Glumly she allowed herself to be led back to the Waldgraves. Where Mrs Waldgrave almost immediately managed, whilst admiring her gown, to let it be understood that she looked like mutton dressed as lamb. Miss Burden, who, it might be remembered, had not wished to come to the Harvest Ball in the first place, began very heartily to wish she was not only elsewhere, but dead. Yes, dead: there he was now, going down the dance with a simpering Miss Patterson—

    Abruptly Midge went very red and wrenched her thoughts off that straight-backed “he”.

    Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham's senior officer looked thoughtfully at Miss Burden, going down the dance again with Mr Simon Golightly. “Give it a touch, Arthur?”

    Commander Sir Arthur looked at Miss Burden, and smiled slowly. “Is she not delightful?”

    Captain Cornwallis grinned. He himself preferred taller, slimmer ladies, preferably white-skinned, with hair of a midnight darkness. Unfortunately there were none such present. Not that he intended suffering on that account. “Well, she's your type, old man. But—er—seriously, what about the Portuguese Widow?”

    Commander Sir Arthur went rather red and said crossly: “She will take Stamforth, mark my word, and in any case, there was never anything serious on my part!”

    The Captain rather thought there might have been: he had not seen Arthur so struck this many a long day. But he said mildly: “Mm, well, that does seem likely. Heard she was stayin’ down on the coast not five miles from Stamforth Castle. Well, Arthur, I suggest you invite that pretty little frigate in the green to dance.”

    “Yes, sir!” said the Commander with a mock salute.

    “But pity a senior officer’s nerves, and don’t do it under Nettie’s nose, will you?”

    Grinning, Arthur Jerningham retorted: “Don’t despair, old man, the night's still young: you may find a raven-haired Diana yet!”

    “Pooh, Winifred and Nettie will have me take in some fat local dame to the supper, and it will be all up with me!” The Captain took his arm and strolled away with him towards the point where he calculated the pretty little frigate in the pale green might cast anchor after the current skirmish.

    In consequence of this naval manoeuvre, Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham was subsequently observed to dance twice with Miss Burden. Several persons present who knew the Commander and the Pattersons, but did not know Miss Burden, remarked, imprimis, that they were not surprised, for apart from the colouring she could have been a twin of the little Portuguese Widow, and secundus, who was she? Receiving the subsequent enlightenment with slight shrugs. No doubt she would amuse Arthur well enough for an evening.

    Colonel Langford was dancing with his fiancée, and did not waste the waltz by discussing the other dancers; but afterwards he said, as they went slowly in search of a glass of lemonade for Lettice: “Arthur Jerningham was dancing with Miss Burden, did you see?”

    “The naval gentleman? So you know him, do you, Charles?”

    “Known him since school, aye!” he said with a laugh. “Yes, well, she is precisely the type that he has always admired: little, pretty and plump. The last I heard he was dangling after some Spanish—no, Portuguese widow reputed to be just that type!”

    Mrs Burden swallowed. “I see.”

    “Sorry; Society gossip! It’s my sister's friends, y’see: she lives retired herself, as you know, but she has at least a dozen regular correspondents who write her all the London news.”

    “Mm,” she said, smiling at him. “Well, that explains Midge's attraction for him, of course. So now you had better tell me what he has, beside the looks, or I shall be in a fever of unsatisfied curiosity all evening!”

    “I suppose I asked for that!” he said with a laugh. “No, well, if you really wish to know, he has a snug little property in, uh, Derbyshire, I think. And then, he's a Jerningham.”

    “He would be: his name is Jerningham.”

    “Connection of the Hammonds. Think Arthur’s old uncle would actually have some sort of claim to the marquisate if—er—about four other fellows popped off before him,” he ended, grinning sheepishly.

    “I hope that remembering all these Society connections is not a prerequisite for becoming the mistress of Kendlewood Place, for I fear it is beyond my poor capacities,” said Lettice dulcetly, giving him a look from under her lashes.

    The Colonel, laughing very much, squeezed her arm into his side and assured her it was not. And they forgot about Miss Burden, and those who were partnering her. and those who were not, for the nonce.

    During their second dance the gallant Commander informed Miss Burden that he had succeeded in making his friend quite jealous. Miss Burden replied with a chuckle that she doubted it could be so, for had he not himself informed her that Captain Cornwallis was moping in the absence of tall, dashing, dark-haired Dianas? Commander Sir Arthur, delighted by this reply, promptly told Miss Burden that he felt it his duty as an officer to warn her that he had heard it said of persons that sharp that they risked cutting themselves. At which Miss Burden giggled gratifyingly. The Commander immediately asked her for the supper dance. And the supper.

    Somewhat weakly, Miss Burden accepted. Mr Butterworth had previously told her coyly that he would expect to see her when the supper drew nigh. Well, he had not positively asked—and she had certainly not promised! She then favoured Commander Sir Arthur with the information that she did know a young woman with just those looks who lived in the neighbourhood, but she was not present.

    “Leonard will be furious to learn of this, Miss Burden! Who is she, where is she, and why is she not present?”

    Miss Burden was now wishing she had not said anything. She replied cautiously: “She is a young lady who comes to me for French and Italian classes, sir. Her name is Miss Bottomley-Pugh. But she is a very gentle person, I would not call her dashing.”

    “Bottomley-Pugh? Don’t think I know the name. I know some Brinsley-Pughs. So why is this Diana Bottomley-Pugh not here?”

    “Um—well, I don’t think Mrs Patterson knows them,” said Midge uncomfortably. “Mr Bottomley-Pugh is a very respectable man who has recently built himself a splendid house just outside Nettleford: Nettleford House, it is called. But Katerina could not have come in any case, she is in mourning.”

    Commander Sir Arthur looked down at Miss Burden's pink cheeks and into her anxious eyes and smiled very kindly indeed. “I think I understand, Miss Burden. And I am sorry to hear your friend is in mourning. But I do assure you that Leonard will be very sorry to have missed her.”

    She looked over at Captain Cornwallis, whirling round the room with a handsome lady in puce, and laughed a little. “It is kind of you to say so. But he does not appear unhappy!”

    In the supper room Mrs Burden and Polly were seen to be sitting with Colonel Langford and Dr Golightly. Miss Burden hesitated; but just at that moment Lord Sleyven came in and the Colonel immediately waved to him to join their table. Miss Burden allowed Commander Sir Arthur to conduct her to a little table for two persons.

    The Earl chatted politely; but Charles Langford had seen his mouth tighten as Miss Burden sat down with Arthur Jerningham, and his heart sank. He would try speaking to the fellow before the evening was through—but Lord! If he could not realise for himself that if he did not make a push to engage her attention, other fellows would—!

    During the supper Miss Burden was seen to laugh very much in Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham's company. And to blush a lot. Commander Sir Arthur was also seen to laugh very much. In fact, he was seen to give an entirely convincing picture of a man who was entirely captivated by the company in which he found himself.

    The music played again, the more vigorous took to the floor again, the less energetic repaired to the card room...

    Mr Butterworth made the mistake of trying to point out that the dance for which Commander Sir Arthur had just asked Miss Burden was his. In a very stiff and formal manner. The Commander immediately pretended to become very offended, accusing Mr Butterworth of all sorts of imputations. Mr Butterworth became stiffer than ever. And also very angry: he was not a bright man but he saw easily enough that the gallant naval officer was laughing up his sleeve at him. Miss Burden was reduced to refusing to dance with either of them and running away.

    She retreated to the terrace outside the ballroom. There were people talking nearby: she slipped silently down to the far end of the terrace, and sat down in the shadow of a trellised vine. Oh, dear, how absurd. She should never have encouraged the Commander. And if that was what wearing low-cut pale green silk led to, she need not have bothered!

    In the ballroom the music played gaily but Miss Burden ceased to hear it, and lapsed into the sort of gloomy introspection that she had earlier in the summer vowed she would not permit herself.

    ... “Leave it, Charles,” said the Earl tightly as, having failed to find a kala jugga that was not occupied by card players or courting couples, the Colonel pulled him onto the long terrace outside the Verne Lea ballroom.

    Ignoring this injunction, the Colonel replied heatedly: “For God’s sake, Jarvis, did you expect Arthur Jerningham to hang back? He has always admired the same type as you, as if I needed to remind you!”

    “May I point out, Miss Burden did not appear averse to his company?”

    “Well, if you don’t put up a fight for her, you may expect other fellows to carry her off! And as for encouraging him, what else is she supposed to do?” said the Colonel angrily. “Hang round until you decide whether or not she will do?”

    “No,” he said tightly.

    The Colonel sighed. “Look, Jarvis, I know you think it was not quite proper, but it was entirely courageous of her to come up to the house with damned Hutton like that!”

    “It was not proper at all,” he replied coldly.

    “And for you the courage don't outweigh the impropriety: don’t explain,” said the Colonel sourly.

    After a moment the Earl said evenly: “I am not denying that Miss Burden has many admirable traits. At the same time, however, she has clearly no notion whatsoever of the conduct befitting a woman of gentle birth.”

    “What you mean is,” said the Colonel in a low, bitter voice: “she does not fit that cold, prim, competent picture you have fixed in your stubborn head as your countess.”

    “Quite,” he said tightly.

    “Jarvis, for the Lord’s sake! Admit that you are head over heels about her!”

    “I admit that I am attracted to her.”

    “It is more than that!”

    “Since you will have it,” he said through his teeth: “yes. To be brutally frank, she's a damned cuddly little morsel, and though she don’t know it herself, could be cursed hot stuff in a man’s bed.”

    The Colonel swallowed. “Mm,” he agreed lamely.

    “But that is not all that should signify in such a case.”

    “You damned fool, it’s the only thing that should signify!”

    “I have no intention,” said the Earl with finality, “of installing a harum-scarum creature sadly wanting in conduct, who is hail-fellow-well-met with the rag, tag and bobtail of the county, and to whom the whole concept of a quiet womanly dignity appears to be a closed book, as the mistress of Maunsleigh. I owe the name more than that. And I should be grateful if you would refrain from further discussion on the point, Charles. I have given the matter considerable thought, and that is my decision.” He turned on his heel and left him.

    “Oh, God,” said the Colonel numbly. He passed his good hand over his face, sighed, and went slowly back to the ballroom.

    Miss Burden, it may be remembered, had not been exposed to the delightful works of the author of Pride and Prejudice. But although she thus had no specific example available to her of the dangers of listening to other people’s conversations at dances, she was aware of the adage that eavesdroppers generally heard no good of themselves. But by the time she had realized who the two gentlemen talking further up the terrace were, it was too late to escape unseen. She had perforce remained where she was, her ears and cheeks alike burning.

    Embarrassment, however, had speedily given way to shock and humiliation. That he could speak so, of her, to his friend! Miss Burden, it may also be remembered, had very little experience of gentlemen. And certainly none of how men, even gentlemen, might speak when alone together. Mingled with the humiliation was a confusing hot excitement, hitherto unknown to Miss Burden, that had overtaken her at the Earl’s picture of herself in his bed. Perversely, however, at the same time she seethed with disgust and anger. Well, if that was how he thought of her, he need never see her again! He was unfeeling, and a brute! And insufferably—insufferably!—conceited besides! Any woman who wished to join his lordly self upon the pedestal on which he had placed himself and his loathsome name, was welcome to him!

    It was some time before she could even move. Eventually she rose, very shakily. To think that at one point during that interview at Maunsleigh she had actually imagined that he had wished to be kind! No, well, the tea-tray and the sandwiches had undoubtedly been merely what he owed to his own consequence. And all the time he had been thinking how harum-scarum and unladylike she was! She had been right all along about the Earl of Sleyven.

    Miss Burden was, of course, unaware that a Lady of Quality had lately demonstrated with great elegance and precision the dangers of two persons who were attracted to each other allowing themselves to be influenced by an excess of pride or excessive prejudice. On either or both parts.

    Jarvis Wynton, on the other hand, had read Pride and Prejudice. It had not occurred to him, however, to make the comparison. His feelings for Midge Burden were so turbulent that that clever, elegant piece of writing, which he had very much enjoyed, was probably the last thing that would ever have suggested itself to him in that context.

    Nor did it seriously occur to him that it was the spectacle of Miss Burden encouraging Arthur Jerningham's advances this evening that had strengthened his resolve, in the wake of her call at Maunsleigh, that she was not the woman he wished to make his countess. And he was very far indeed from crediting that her acceptance of Mr Bottomley-Pugh’s blue-legged French hens had had a similar effect on his feelings.

    “Something’s gone wrong,” summed up Mrs Fred Watts mournfully. “I knew she should never ’a’ taken them blue-legged ’ens. Unnatural, is wot they are.”

    “Yer don’t say!” retorted Mrs Jackley bitterly.

    “Um—well, did they ’ave a row at the ’arvest ball?”

    “Was I there?” replied Cook sourly.

    “Well, ain’t you asked Mr ’Utton, at least?”

    Mrs Jackley replied sourly: “All ’e said was, the Lard was in one of ’is moods. And Jane ’Arbottle reckons she asked ’im, What about Miss Burden? Meanin’, ’ad ’e mentioned ’er to the Lard; and ’e says, the Lard told that yeller feller ’e’d choke ’im if ’e mentioned ’er name in ’is presence.”

    “They’ve ’ad a row, all roight,” deduced Mrs Fred.

    “I dare say.”

    Mrs Fred looked at her uneasily. “Miss Humphreys was a-sayin’ Miss Burden says she’ll go off to be Mrs Cartwright’s companion after the wedding.”

    “That’s roight. So much for your wonderful ’arvest moon!” concluded Cook bitterly.

Next chapter:

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