But she must go.  She had her profession; and she must earn money.

Also—­the admission caused her discomfort—­the sooner she went, the sooner would it be possible for Lady Tatham to induce her son to migrate to the Scotch moor where, as a rule, she and he were always to be found settled by the first days of August.  It was evident that she was anxious to be gone.  Lydia confessed it, sorely, to herself.  It seemed to her that she had been spending some weeks in trying hard to make friends with Lady Tatham; and she had not succeeded.

“Why won’t she talk to me!” she thought; “and I daren’t—­to her.  It would be so easy to understand each other!”

Three days later, Green Cottage was in the occupation of a Manchester solicitor, who was paying a rent for it, which put Mrs. Penfold in high spirits; especially when coupled with the astonishing fact that Lydia had sold all her three drawings which had been sent to a London exhibition—­also, apparently, to a solicitor.  Mrs. Penfold expressed her surprise to her daughter that the practice of the law should lead both to a love of scenery and the patronage of the arts; she had been brought up to think of it as a deadening profession.

Lydia had gone south; Mrs. Penfold and Susy were paying visits to relations; and Duddon was closed till the end of September.  It was known that Mr. Melrose had gone off on one of his curio-hunting tours; and the new agent ruled.  A whole countryside, or what was left of it in August, settled down to watch.

* * * * *

High on the moors of Ross-shire, Lady Tatham too watched.  The lodge filled up with guests, and one charming girl succeeded another, by Victoria’s careful contrivance.  None of your painted and powdered campaigners with minds torn between the desire to “best” a rival, and the terror of their dressmakers’ bills; but the freshest, sweetest, best-bred young women she could discover among the daughters of her friends.  Tatham was delightful with them all, patiently played golf with them, taught them to fish, and tramped with them over the moors.  And when they said good-bye, and the motor took them to the station, Victoria believed that he remembered them just about as much, or as little, as the “bag” of the last shoot.

Her own feeling was curiously mixed.  There were many days when she would have liked to beat Lydia Penfold, and at all times her pride lay wounded, bitterly wounded, at the girl’s soft hands.  When Harry had first confided in her, she had been certain that no nice girl could long resist him, if only she, Harry’s mother, gave opportunities and held the lists.  It would not be necessary for her to take any active steps.  Mere propinquity would do it.  Then, when Tatham stumbled prematurely into his proposal, Victoria might have intervened to help, but for Lydia’s handling of the situation.  She had refused the natural place offered her in Harry’s life—­the