Elizabeth laughed.  ’He tells me there was a joint of cold beef last night for supper, and he carried it away bodily back into the larder.  And they all supped on fried potatoes, cheese, oatcake and jam!  So then I asked him whether anybody minded, and he said the little kitchen-maid cried a bit, and said she “was used to her vittles and her mother would be dreadfully put out.” “‘Mother!’ says I, ‘haven’t you got a young man!’ And then I give her a real talking to about the war.  ‘You back your young man,’ I said, ’and there’s only one way as females can do it—­barring them as is in munitions.  Every bit of bread you don’t eat is helping to kill Boches.  And what else is your young man doin’?  Where do you say he is?  Wipers?  You ask him.  He’ll tell you!’ So then we were all nice and comfortable—­and you needn’t bother about us downstairs. We’re all right!"’

‘Good old Forest!’ laughed Desmond, delighted.  ’I always knew he was the real boss here.  Father thinks he is, but he can’t do without Forest, and the old boy knows it.’

‘Well, so that’s agreed,’ said Elizabeth demurely, as she rose.  ’I naturally couldn’t do anything without you, but so long as your father gets everything that he’s accustomed to—­’

’I don’t see quite what you’re going to do about dinner—­late dinner, I mean?’ said Pamela pensively.

Elizabeth beamed at her.

’Well, I became a vegetarian last week, except for very occasional break-outs.  Fish is a vegetable!’

‘I see,’ reflected Pamela.  ’We can break out now and then at dinner, when father’s got his eye on us—­’

‘And be pure patriots at lunch,’ laughed Miss Bremerton, as she opened the door.  ‘Au revoir!  I must go back to work.’

She vanished.  The brother and sister looked at each other.

Desmond gave his opinion.

‘I believe she’s a good sort!’

‘"Wait and see,"’ said Pamela pompously, and returned to her packing.

* * * * *

The preceding conversation took place during a break in Elizabeth’s morning occupations.  She had been busily occupied in collecting and copying out some references from Pausanias, under the Squire’s direction.  He meanwhile had been cataloguing and noting his new possessions, which, thanks to the aid of his henchman Levasseur, had been already arranged.  And they made indeed a marvellous addition to the Mannering library and its collections.  At the end of the room stood now a huge archaic Nike, with outstretched peplum and soaring wings.  To her left was the small figure, archaic also, of a charioteer, from the excavations at Delphi, amazingly full of life in spite of hieratic and traditional execution.  But the most conspicuous thing of all was a mutilated Eros, by a late Rhodian artist—­subtle, thievish, lovely, breathing an evil and daemonic charm.  It stood opposite the Nike, ‘on tiptoe for a flight.’  And there was that in it which seemed at moments to disorganize the room, and lay violent and exclusive hold on the spectator.