to men remarkable only for ideas, and the way they put them into paint or ink.  He had used, and could use, the sword, even in the cause of Peace.  He could love, had loved, or so they said:  If Barbara had been a girl of twenty in another class, she would probably never have heard of this, and if she had heard, it might very well have dismayed or shocked her.  But she had heard, and without shock, because she had already learned that men were like that, and women too sometimes.

It was with quite a little pang of concern that she saw him hobbling down the street towards her; and when he was once more seated, she told the chauffeur:  “To the station, Frith.  Quick, please!” and began: 

“You are not to be trusted a bit.  What were you doing?”

But Courtier smiled grimly over the head of Ann, in silence.

At this, almost the first time she had ever yet encountered a distinct rebuff, Barbara quivered, as though she had been touched lightly with a whip.  Her lips closed firmly, her eyes began to dance.  “Very well, my dear,” she thought.  But presently stealing a look at him, she became aware of such a queer expression on his face, that she forgot she was offended.

“Is anything wrong, Mr. Courtier?”

“Yes, Lady Barbara, something is very wrong—­that miserable mean thing, the human tongue.”

Barbara had an intuitive knowledge of how to handle things, a kind of moral sangfroid, drawn in from the faces she had watched, the talk she had heard, from her youth up.  She trusted those intuitions, and letting her eyes conspire with his over Ann’s brown hair, she said: 

“Anything to do with Mrs. N-----?”  Seeing “Yes” in his eyes, she added
quickly:  “And M-----?”

Courtier nodded.

“I thought that was coming.  Let them babble!  Who cares?”

She caught an approving glance, and the word, “Good!”

But the car had drawn up at Bucklandbury Station.

The little grey figure of Lady Casterley, coming out of the station doorway, showed but slight sign of her long travel.  She stopped to take the car in, from chauffeur to Courtier.

“Well, Frith!—­Mr. Courtier, is it?  I know your book, and I don’t approve of you; you’re a dangerous man—­How do you do?  I must have those two bags.  The cart can bring the rest....  Randle, get up in front, and don’t get dusty.  Ann!” But Ann was already beside the chauffeur, having long planned this improvement.  “H’m!  So you’ve hurt your leg, sir?  Keep still!  We can sit three....  Now, my dear, I can kiss you!  You’ve grown!”