“Never mind, Bobbie, never mind!”—­she smiled at him confidentially.  “We can’t all be six foot.”

Bobbie stared at her—­first fiercely—­then exploded with laughter, shook off her hand and departed.

Lady Niton, evidently much pleased with herself, came back to the window where most of the other ladies stood watching the shooters with their line of beaters crossing the lawn toward the park beyond.  “Ah!” she said, “I thought Alicia would see the last of them!”

For Miss Drake, in defiance of wind and spitting rain, was walking over the lawn the centre of a large group, with Marsham beside her.  Her white serge dress and the blue shawl she had thrown over her fair head made a brilliant spot in the dark wavering line.

“Alicia is very picturesque,” said Mrs. Fotheringham, turning away.

“Yes—­and last summer Oliver seemed to be well aware of it,” said Lady Niton, in her ear.

“Was he?  He has always been very good friends with Alicia.”

“He could have done without the waistcoat,” said Lady Niton, sharply.

“Aren’t you rather unkind?  She began it last summer, and finished it yesterday.  Then, of course, she presented it to him.  I don’t see why that should expose her to remarks.”

“One can’t help making remarks about Alicia,” said Lady Niton, calmly, “and she can defend herself so well.”

“Poor Alicia!”

“Confess you wouldn’t like Oliver to marry her.”

“Oliver never had any thought of it.”

Lady Niton shook her queer gray head.

“Oliver paid her a good deal of attention last summer.  Alicia must certainly have considered the matter.  And she is a young lady not easily baffled.”

“Baffled!” Mrs. Fotheringham laughed.  “What can she do?”

“Well, it’s true that Oliver seems to have got another idea in his head. 
What do you think of that pretty child who came yesterday—­the
Mallory girl?”

Mrs. Fotheringham hesitated, then said, coldly: 

“I don’t like discussing these things.  Oliver has plenty of time before him.”

“If he is turning his thoughts in that quarter,” persisted Lady Niton, “I give him my blessing.  Well bred, handsome, and well off—­what’s your objection?”

Mrs. Fotheringham laughed impatiently.  “Really, Lady Niton, I made no objection.”

“You don’t like her!”

“I have only known her twenty-four hours.  How can I have formed any opinion about her?”

“No—­you don’t like her!  I suppose you thought she talked stuff last night?”

“Well, there can be no two opinions about that!” cried Mrs. Fotheringham.  “Her father seems to have filled her head with all sorts of false Jingo notions, and I must say I wondered Oliver was so patient with her.”

Lady Niton glanced at the thin fanatical face of the speaker.

“Oliver had great difficulty in holding his own.  She is no fool, and you’ll find it out, Isabel, if you try to argue her down—­”