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"That's it. We've been promised a new one for months and it doesn't come. I don't believe it's ever been ordered."

"Oh, yes, it has," said Lesley earnestly.

"Look here," said Rosamund, "you get on with this and leave me. I can quite well amuse myself till your Mr. Hightower finishes dressing."

The time had come, she felt, for another cigarette, and as soon as Lesley and the Benson woman had gone, she lit one and sat down in an armchair. Everything was quiet, except for a distant murmur of female voices. The men, of course, would be out working on the place, and the children would be at school. She wondered if everyone took their ease as freely as those she had met. Evidently early rising was no part of the life of Waters Farm. It also seemed obvious that everyone was out for what they could get. Well, who was to blame them? All the same, she felt she'd like to stop that little game. It was a shame to take advantage quite so openly of a kindhearted thing like Lesley. If she had thought of staying . . . but she was more than ever determined to go. This was a dump if ever there was one, and she'd better get out of it as quickly as possible. She'd try a shop next time—not a dress shop, unless she could get into one of those Grosvenor Street places . . . but even that wouldn't be much good, because in them you meet only women, and she'd had a sickener of women. What about antiques? Grace Morrow had done very well in an antique shop—got some quite big sums in commission—and you often met interesting people. . . . She'd ask Grace if she knew of anything going in that line—