w you always enjoy Americans."

"And you, my dear?" said Lady Raffold, with just a hint of sharpness in
her tone.

"I?" Again her stepdaughter paused a little, as if collecting her
thoughts. "I shall not be here," she said finally. "I have decided to go
down to Raffold for midsummer week, and I don't suppose I shall hurry
back. It won't matter, will it? I often think that you entertain best
alone. And I am so tired of London heat and dust."

There was an unconscious note of wistfulness in the beautiful voice, but
its dominant virtue was determination.

Lady Raffold realised at once to her unspeakable indignation that
protest was useless.

"Really, Priscilla," was all she found to say, "I am amazed--yes,
amazed--at your total lack of consideration."

But Priscilla was quite unimpressed.

"You won't have time to miss me," she said. "I don't think any one will,
except, perhaps, Dad; and he always knows where to find me."

"Your father will certainly not leave town before the end of the
season," said Lady Raffold, raising her voice slightly.

"Poor dear Dad!" murmured Priscilla.

II

THE ROMANCE OF HER LIFE

"And so I escaped. Her ladyship didn't like it, but it was worth a
tussle."

Priscilla leaned back luxuriously in the housekeeper's room at Raffold
Abbey, and laughed upon a deep note of satisfaction. She had discarded
all things fashionable with her departure from London in the height of
the season. The crumpled linen hat she wore was designed for comfort and
not for elegance. Her gown of brown holland was simplicity itself. She
sat carelessly with her arm round the neck of an immense mastiff who had
followed her in.

"I've cut everything, Froggy," she declared, "including the terrible
American cousin. In fact, it was almost more on his account than any
other that I did it. For I can't and won't marry him, not even for the
sake of the dear old Abbey! Are you very shocked, I wonder?"

Froggy the housekeeper--so named by young Lord Mortimer in his schoolboy
days--looked up from her work and across at Priscilla, her brown,
prominent eyes, to which she owed her _sobriquet_, shining lovingly
behind her spectacles. Her real name was Mrs. Burrowes, but Priscilla
could not remember a time when she had ever called her anything but
Froggy. The old familiar name had become doubly dear to both of them now
that Mortimer was dead.

"I should be very shocked, indeed, darling, if it were otherwise," was
F