to her father's memory."

"Ah! and the things she could have done with it."

Impossible to say whether Mrs. Fazakerly referred to Miss Tancred's
house or her life. Durant smiled at her probable conception of Coton
Manor, with its tragedy of splendid possibilities gone to waste; but
Mrs. Fazakerly's idea cut both ways.

She sighed wearily.

"These drives were not made to be walked up. There's another mile
and a half of it, and I'm half-dead already. I shall sit down."

She led the way to an elm tree fallen in the grass, examined it
critically, sat down, and made a place for him at her side.

"So you're going to-morrow? Is that so?"

"It is--probably."

"It's a pity--just as you and Miss Tancred have made friends."

"The best of friends must part," said he lightly.

"Yes. Well, I'm glad you've managed to be nice to her, after all.
She's come out in the most astonishing manner since you came. What
have you been doing to her?"

"I've done nothing to her, I assure you."

"Ah, you mean you've not been making love to her."

"I don't mean anything of the sort."

Durant was angry. It was borne in upon him that Mrs. Fazakerly was
vulgar, after all. She looked at him, and her _pince-nez_ balanced
itself on the bridge of her nose, then leapt its suicidal leap. She
was amused with the ambiguity of his reply.

"_That's_ all right. Heaven help the man who does make love to her,
if he means it. That girl's a riddle to me. I used to think she
cared a little for her father; but it's my belief that Frida Tancred
cares for nobody, not even herself. She simply doesn't know what
love is, and she doesn't want to know. Why am I saying these
alarming things to you? I'm saying them because I'm old enough to be
your mother, and because I like you. You're clever, and you've got a
sense of humor, too, though I can't say it's been much use to you
since you came here. But, with all your cleverness, you'll never
understand Frida Tancred. She's not like other women, the sort
you've flirted with so much. Don't tell me you haven't; for you
have. She can't help it. Her mother was a queer fantastic creature,
and Frida's just like her, only stronger, much stronger, and deeper,
which makes it worse. I'm sorry for her, because you see I'm very
fond of her, and I think there's nothing--positively nothing--I
wouldn't do to help her."

"It's an intolerable existence for her."

"Intolerable? Ah, my dear Mr. Durant, you're delightfully young;