Kirsteen interrupted in her calm, staccato voice with just the faintest lisp: 

“Stanley would not understand.”

She had put her arm through Tod’s, but never removed her eyes from her brother-in-law’s face.

“Possibly,” said Felix, “but you must remember that Stanley, John, and myself represent ordinary—­what shall we say—­level-headed opinion.”

“With which we have nothing in common, I’m afraid.”

Felix glanced from her to Tod.  The fellow had his head on one side and seemed listening to something in the distance.  And Felix felt a certain irritation.

“It’s all very well,” he said, “but I think you really have got to look at your children’s future from a larger point of view.  You don’t surely want them to fly out against things before they’ve had a chance to see life for themselves.”

She answered: 

“The children know more of life than most young people.  They’ve seen it close to, they’ve seen its realities.  They know what the tyranny of the countryside means.”

“Yes, yes,” said Felix, “but youth is youth.”

“They are not too young to know and feel the truth.”

Felix was impressed.  How those narrowing eyes shone!  What conviction in that faintly lisping voice!

‘I am a fool for my pains,’ he thought, and only said: 

“Well, what about this invitation, anyway?”

“Yes; it will be just the thing for them at the moment.”

The words had to Felix a somewhat sinister import.  He knew well enough that she did not mean by them what others would have meant.  But he said:  “When shall we expect them?  Tuesday, I suppose, would be best for Clara, after her weekend.  Is there no chance of you and Tod?”

She quaintly wrinkled her lips into not quite a smile, and answered: 

“Tod shall say.  Do you hear, Tod?”

“In the meadow.  It was there yesterday—­first time this year.”

Felix slipped his arm through his brother’s.

“Quite so, old man.”

“What?” said Tod.  “Ah! let’s go in.  I’m awfully hungry.” . . .

Sometimes out of a calm sky a few drops fall, the twigs rustle, and far away is heard the muttering of thunder; the traveller thinks:  ‘A storm somewhere about.’  Then all once more is so quiet and peaceful that he forgets he ever had that thought, and goes on his way careless.

So with Felix returning to Becket in Stanley’s car.  That woman’s face, those two young heathens—­the unconscious Tod!

There was mischief in the air above that little household.  But once more the smooth gliding of the cushioned car, the soft peace of the meadows so permanently at grass, the churches, mansions, cottages embowered among their elms, the slow-flapping flight of the rooks and crows lulled Felix to quietude, and the faint far muttering of that thunder died away.

Nedda was in the drive when he returned, gazing at a nymph set up there by Clara.  It was a good thing, procured from Berlin, well known for sculpture, and beginning to green over already, as though it had been there a long time—­a pretty creature with shoulders drooping, eyes modestly cast down, and a sparrow perching on her head.