tree spread its arms out to catch the soft warm breeze in its embrace. Over the tree-tops the swallows were circling with their little characteristic air of discreet and graceful frivolity. Tennyson would doubtless have addressed them. Lady Locke did not even notice them. She was thinking, and too deeply to sit down.
She was in that strange condition of mind that is called being angry with one's self. A miniature civil war was raging within her, in which two mental voices abused one another, and asked one another the most strangely impertinent and inappropriate questions.
One said, "What on earth are you about?"
The other, "You have no right to ask. Mind your own business."
"You are letting yourself go in a way that is humiliating."
"Indeed, I am doing nothing of the kind."
"Why did you blush, then, when he merely touched your hand? He is simply a thoughtless, foolish boy."
"I shan't talk to you any more."
But still the urgent conversation went on within. Lady Locke was, in fact, very angry with herself, and considerably surprised at her own girlishness. For that was what she called it, for want of a better name. She was half disgusted at finding herself so young. Had
