dge of Cromwell would be that he had a wart on his nose."

"I shouldn't say it was a very trifling matter seeing it killed
him--drink I mean, not Cromwell's wart," Mary responded with more
spirit than usual. "Vasari says so."

"It is quite possible that he does, but it is not a salient feature."

"A wart on the nose would be a very salient feature," Mary ventured.

"Exactly, that is what you would think and that is what I complain of.
It is a strain that runs through the whole of you--except perhaps the
Kitten--a dreadful narrowness of vision--don't tell me your sight is
good--I'm only referring to your mental outlook. It is the fatal
frivolous attitude of mind that always remembers the wholly irrelevant
statement that the Earl of Warwick, the King-maker, was born when his
mother was fourteen."

"Was he?" Mary exclaimed with deep interest; "how very young to have a
baby."

Mr Ffolliot glared at her: "and nothing else," he continued, ignoring
the interruption.

"Oh, but I do remember other things about Ercole besides being a
drunkard," she protested; "he hated people watching him work, I can
understand that, and he was awfully kind and faithful to his master."

"All quite useless and trifling in comparison with what I, myself, have
told you of his work, which you evidently don't remember. It is a
man's work that matters, not little peculiarities of temperament and
character."

"I think," Mary said demurely, "that little peculiarities of
temperament and character matter a good deal to the people who have to
live with them."

"That is possible but quite unimportant. It is a man's intellect that
is immortal, not his temperament."

Again a long silence till Mary said suddenly: "Mother has never written
anything or painted anything or done anything very remarkable, and yet
she seems to matter a great deal to a lot of people besides us. I
never go outside the gates but people stop me and ask all sorts of
questions about her. Surely character can matter too?"

Mr Ffolliot's scornful expression changed. He looked at his daughter
with interest. "Do you know, Mary," he said quite amiably, "that
sometimes I think you can't be quite as stupid as you make yourself
appear."

That was on Friday. On Saturday Mary was in dire disgrace.

Nana had taken the children to a cinematograph show in Marlehouse.
Miss Glover went with them in the bucket to visit a friend there. The
Squire had affixed a paper to the outsi