of it, yet she could not be silent.  Miss Dale, who understood much of this, endeavoured to talk her friend into easiness; but she feared to begin upon the one subject, and before the drive was over they were, both of them, too cold for much conversation.  ‘There’s mamma,’ said Miss Dale as they drove up, turning out of the street of the village to the door of Mrs Dale’s house.  ’She always knows by instinct, when I am coming.  You must understand now that you are among us, that mamma and I are not mother and daughter, but two loving old ladies living together in peace and harmony.  We do have our quarrels—­whether the chicken shall be roast or boiled, but never anything beyond that.  Mamma, here is Grace, starved to death; and she says if you don’t give her some tea she will go back at once.’

‘I will give her some tea,’ said Mrs Dale.

’And I am worse than she is, because I’ve been driving.  It’s all up with Bertram and Mr Green for the next week at least.  It is freezing as hard as it can freeze, and they might as well try to hunt in Lapland as here.’

‘They’ll console themselves with skating,’ said Mrs Dale.

‘Have you ever observed, Grace,’ said Miss Dale,’ how much amusement gentlemen require, and how imperative it is that some other game should be provided when one game fails?’

‘Not particularly,’ said Grace.

’Oh, but it is so.  Now, with women, it is supposed that they can amuse themselves or live without amusement.  Once or twice in a year, perhaps something is done for them.  There is an arrow-shooting party, or a ball, or a picnic.  But the catering for men’s sport is never ending, and is always paramount to everything else.  And yet the pet game of the day never goes off properly.  In partridge time, the partridges are wild, and won’t come to be killed.  In hunting time the foxes won’t run straight —­the wretches.  They show no spirit, and will take to ground to save their brushes.  Then comes a nipping frost, and skating is proclaimed; but the ice is always rough, and the woodcocks have deserted the country.  And as for salmon—­when the summer comes round I do really believe that they suffer a great deal about the salmon.  I’m sure they never catch any.  So they go back to their clubs and their cards, and their billiards, and abuse their cooks and blackball their friends.  That’s about it, mamma; is it not?’

‘You know more about it than I do, my dear.’

’Because I have to listen to Bertram, as you never will do.  We’ve got such a Mr Green down here, Grace.  He’s such a duck of a man—­such top-boots and all the rest of it.  And yet they whisper to me that he doesn’t always ride to hounds.  And to see him play billiards is beautiful, only he can never make a stroke.  I hope you play billiards, Grace, because uncle Christopher has just had a new table put up.’

‘I never saw a billiard-table yet,’ said Grace.

’Then Mr Green shall teach you.  He’ll do anything that you ask him.  If you don’t approve the colour of the ball, he’ll go to London to get you another one.  Only you must be very careful about saying that you like anything before him, as he’ll be sure to have it for you the next day.  Mamma happened to say that she wanted a four-penny postage stamp, and he walked off to Guestwick to get it for her instantly, although it was lunch-time.’