“I did.  I did.  But, of course—­it is very natural—­they think that rather self-important and silly.  I am thought very silly here, Rachel.  And James does not mind being interrupted in writing his sermons.  And the Pratts have got the habit of running in in the mornings.”

“Who on earth are the Pratts?”

“They are what they call ‘county people.’  Their father made a fortune in oil, and built a house covered with turrets near here a few years ago.  I used to know Captain Pratt, the son, very slightly in London.  I never would dance with him.  He used to come to our ‘At Homes,’ but he was never asked to dinner.  He is a great ‘parti’ among a certain set down here.  His mother and sisters were very kind to me when I came, but I was not so accustomed then as I am now to be treated familiarly and called ‘Hessie,’ which no one has ever called me before, and I am afraid I was not so responsive as I see now I ought to have been.  Down here it seems your friends are the people whom you live near, not the ones you like.  It seems a curious arrangement.  And as the Pratts are James’s and Minna’s greatest friends, I did not wish to offend them.  And then, of course, I did offend them mortally at last by losing my temper when they came up to my room to what they called ‘rout me out,’ though I had told them I was busy in the mornings.  I was in a very difficult place, and when they came in I did not know who they were, because only the people in the book were real just then.  And then when I recognized them, and the scene in my mind which I had been waiting for for weeks was shattered like a pane of glass, I became quite giddy and spoke wildly.  And then—­I was so ashamed afterwards—­I burst into tears of rage and despair.”

Even the remembrance was too much.  Hester wiped away two large tears onto a dear little handkerchief just large enough to receive them, and went on with a quaver in her voice.

“I was so shocked at myself that I found it quite easy to tell them next day that I was sorry I had lost my temper; but they have not been the same since.  Not that I wanted them to be the same.  I would rather they were different.  But I was anxious to keep on cordial terms with Minna’s friends.  She quarrels with them herself, but that is different.  I suppose it is inevitable if you are on terms of great intimacy with people you don’t really care for.”

“At any rate, they have not interrupted you again?”

“N—­no.  But still, I was often interrupted.  Minna has too much to do, and she is not strong just now, and she often sends up one of the children, and I was so nearly fierce with one of them—­poor little things!—­that I felt the risk was becoming too great, so I have left off writing between breakfast and luncheon, and I get up directly it is light instead.  It is light very early now.  Only the worst part of it is that I am so tired for the rest of the day that I can hardly drag myself about.”