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“Ah, well—one knows how they want men!” says Brackenhurst sagely. “Actually pay emigrants to come. Or is that New Zealand? And that girl from the ‘Plough’!” Brackenhurst coughs. “Yes, doing splendidly! Ah, well, they want servants so out there, you see! An absolute famine! Put up with anything—anything! Extraordinary! No caps! Bicycles provided! Evenings out! And wages! Incredible!”

Brackenhurst, with an eye on its own dragooned and aproned treasure, hesitates between envy of a land that can afford such wages and concede such privileges, and a preference for its own England of modest incomes and attendant uniforms. And volunteers news of a nephew’s friend who was in the rush of ’ninety-six, an eulogy of Ella Wheeler Wilcox and a recipe for American rarebit, and so to Mrs. Beeton and home waters again.

But we watch the two bright spots of colour fade again in Mrs. Cloud’s cheeks, and her hand relax that held so tightly the arm of the chair, while with the other she lifts her tea-cup and drinks, a little thirstily, and are glad that Brackenhurst is less observant than you or I should be, of its dear Mrs. Cloud.