"I daresay that it would be a paying speculation, and it would certainly immortalise you."
"I should think myself fortunate if it did not imbecilise me. . . . Do you really want me to educate her, Fillipino, dear?"
"I had visions," confessed Philip, "but I would rather that she was walled up in Cement Street for ever than have you worried."
"Don't be bullied into it by that tone of voice," warned her husband. "Sleep on it, at any rate."
"No, I'll play on it,” she declared. "Go into the garden, please."
For half-an-hour "The Girl in the Chocolate Box" and "Hi, there!" fought tinkling melodies in her soul in turn with Weber and Beethoven, while her husband methodically pruned his tomato plants and repeatedly urged his brother-in-law to take up the study of aphides or diptera. Then, in the fading light, Philip suddenly forgot to pace the walks; the hilarious voices of two lovers in the road beyond sank to a whisper, then ceased; Bartlett no longer pruned. . . .
"So!" he exclaimed half-crossly, closing his knife and turning his steps towards the house as the subdued pæan died away. "You have got it your own way again, of course."
Very easy times succeeded for Marianna. Phœbe, who detested "daily women," got in a daily woman and Marianna's duties lightened and imperceptibly changed. It was easy to requisition her services to carry wraps; she was useful to take shopping; it was inevitable that she should wear prettier things. Marianna saw a great deal of the river that season; she witnessed a royal wedding at Windsor, a military funeral at Guildford, and a day's racing at Esher; she put in an appearance at an occasional flower-show and cricket-match, and she began
