r than the
mere adornment of her own person. In her household she displayed a
talent, not to say a genius, for luxurious order. But a little
dinner at the cottage opposite the lodge gates had convinced Durant
that this elegance of hers was of a fragile and perishable sort. The
peculiar genius of Mrs. Fazakerly clamored for material and for
boundless scope. It could not do itself justice under two thousand a
year at the very least. As things stood its exuberance was hampered
both as to actual space (her drawing-room was only eighteen feet by
twelve) and as to the more glorious possibilities that depend on
income. At Coton Manor she would have a large field and a free hand.
Heaven only knew what Mrs. Fazakerly's mind was made up of; but
quite evidently it was made up.

So far so good; but there was less certainty as to the Colonel's
attitude. As yet nothing was to be seen, so to speak, but his
attitudes, which indeed were extremely entertaining. The little
gentleman was balancing himself very deftly on the edge of
matrimony, and Durant watched with a fearful interest the rash
advance and circumspect retreat, the oscillating hair's-breadth
pause, the perilous swerve, and desperate contortion of recovery.

Durant felt for him; he had so much to lose. Under Miss Tancred the
working of his household was already brought to such exquisite
perfection that any change must be for the worse. He had found out
what became of Miss Tancred in her mysterious disappearances. As far
as he could see the business of the estate was entirely
superintended by the lady. He came across her in earnest
conversation with the gardener; he met her striding across the
fields with the farm-bailiff; he had seen her once on her black mare
inspecting some buildings on the farthest limit of the property, the
obsequious builder taking notes of her directions. She was obviously
a capable woman, a woman of affairs. He presumed that these matters,
with her household and secretarial work, filled up her days; he knew
too well that whist accounted for her evenings. He did not know if
there was any margin, any dim intellectual region, out of time, out
of space, where Miss Tancred's soul was permitted to disport itself
in freedom; she seemed to exist merely in order to supply certain
deficiencies in the Colonel's nature. Mrs. Fazakerly had once
remarked that Frida was "her father's right hand." It would have
been truer to have said that she was right hand and le