mother's attitude toward the interview. Sometimes she wanted to
answer the silent question with a brutal candour, to say: "No,
grandmother doesn't care. She was perfectly horrible about it. She only
laughed." And when the stream of callers had slackened somewhat she
telephoned Alston Choate, and asked if he would come to see her that
evening at nine. She couldn't appoint an earlier hour because she wasn't
free. And immediately after that, Reardon telephoned her and asked if he
might come, rather late, he hesitated, to be sure of finding her alone.
And when she had to put him off to the next night, he spoke of the
interview as "unpardonable ". He was coming, no doubt, to bring his
condolence.

XX

Jeffrey himself had not seen the interview. He had only a mild interest
in Addington newspapers, and Anne had carefully secreted the family copy
lest the colonel should come on it. But on the afternoon when Esther was
receiving subtly sympathetic townswomen, Jeffrey, between the rows of
springing corn, heard steps and looked up from his hoeing. It was Lydia,
the _Argosy_ in hand. She was flushed not only with triumph because
something had begun at last, but before this difficulty of entering on
the tale with Jeff. Pretty child! his heart quickened at sight of her in
her blue dress, sweet arms and neck bare because Lydia so loved freedom.
But, in that his heart did respond to her, he spoke the more brusquely,
showing he had no right to find her fair.

"What is it?"

Lydia, in a hurry, the only way she knew of doing it, extended the
paper, previously folded to expose the headline of Madame Beattie's
name. Jeff, his hoe at rest in one hand, took the paper and looked at it
frowningly, incredulously. Then he read. A word or two escaped him near
the end. Lydia did not quite hear what the word was, but she thought he
was appropriately swearing. Her eyes glistened. She had begun to
agitate. Jeff had finished and crushed the paper violently together,
with no regard to folds.

"Oh, don't," said Lydia. "You can't get any more. They couldn't print
them fast enough."

Jeff passed it to her with a curt gesture of relinquishing any last
interest in it.

"That's Moore," he said. "It's like him."

Lydia was at once relieved. She had been afraid he wasn't going to
discuss it at all.

"You don't blame her, do you?" she prompted.

"Madame Beattie?" He was thinking hard and scowling. "No."

"Anne blames her. She says no lady