would be sad, and averted from their fate towards the
Northern flats, their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the slowly flowing
Lea. No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance; but they
would be real nymphs.

The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had hoped, for the Great
North Road was full of Easter traffic. But he went quite quick enough
for Margaret, a poor-spirited creature, who had chickens and children on
the brain.

"They're all right," said Mr. Wilcox. "They'll learn--like the swallows
and the telegraph-wires."

"Yes, but, while they're learning--"

"The motor's come to stay," he answered. "One must get about. There's a
pretty church--oh, you aren't sharp enough. Well, look out, if the road
worries you--right outward at the scenery."

She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently
it congealed. They had arrived.

Charles's house on the left; on the right the swelling forms of the
Six Hills. Their appearance in such a neighbourhood surprised her. They
interrupted the stream of residences that was thickening up towards
Hilton. Beyond them she saw meadows and a wood, and beneath them she
settled that soldiers of the best kind lay buried. She hated war and
liked soldiers--it was one of her amiable inconsistencies.

But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing at the door to
greet them, and here were the first drops of the rain. They ran in
gaily, and after a long wait in the drawing-room, sat down to the
rough-and-ready lunch, every dish of which concealed or exuded cream.
Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly described his visit
with the key, while her father-in-law gave satisfaction by chaffing her
and contradicting all she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh
at Dolly. He chaffed Margaret too, and Margaret roused from a grave
meditation was pleased and chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised and
eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children came down. Margaret
disliked babies, but hit it off better with the two-year-old, and sent
Dolly into fits of laughter by talking sense to him. "Kiss them now, and
come away," said Mr. Wilcox. She came, but refused to kiss them; it
was such hard luck on the little things, she said, and though Dolly
proffered Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was obdurate.

By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the
hood up, and again she lost all sense of space. In a f