"I didn't--I don't--"

"Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did or
didn't Miss Schlegel--"

"Charles dear," said a voice from the garden. "Charles,
dear Charles, one doesn't ask plain questions. There aren't
such things."

They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox.

She approached just as Helen's letter had described her,
trailing noiselessly over the lawn, and there was actually a
wisp of hay in her hands. She seemed to belong not to the
young people and their motor, but to the house, and to the
tree that overshadowed it. One knew that she worshipped the
past, and that the instinctive wisdom the past can alone
bestow had descended upon her--that wisdom to which we give
the clumsy name of aristocracy. High born she might not
be. But assuredly she cared about her ancestors, and let
them help her. When she saw Charles angry, Paul frightened,
and Mrs. Munt in tears, she heard her ancestors say,
"Separate those human beings who will hurt each other most.
The rest can wait." So she did not ask questions. Still
less did she pretend that nothing had happened, as a
competent society hostess would have done. She said, "Miss
Schlegel, would you take your aunt up to your room or to my
room, whichever you think best. Paul, do find Evie, and
tell her lunch for six, but I'm not sure whether we shall