“A fox got in amongst the hens last night, and ravished our best layer,” remarked Miss Lanyon. “A great-grandmother, too! You’d think he would be ashamed!” Receiving no answer, she continued, in an altered voice: “Indeed, you would! It is a great deal too bad. What is to be done?”

His attention caught, her companion raised his eyes from the book which lay open beside him on the table and directed them upon her in a look of aloof enquiry. “What’s that? Did you say something to me, Venetia?”

“Yes, love,” responded his sister cheerfully, “but it wasn’t of the least consequence, and in any event I answered for you. You would be astonished, I daresay, if you knew what interesting conversations I enjoy with myself.”

“I was reading.”

“So you were—and have let your coffee grow cold, besides abandoning that slice of bread-and-butter. Do eat it up! I’m persuaded I ought not to permit you to read at table.”

“Oh, the breakfast-table!” he said disparagingly. “Try if you can stop me!”

“I can’t, of course. What is it?” she returned, glancing at the volume. “Ah, Greek! Some improving tale, I don’t doubt.”

“The Medea,” he said repressively. “Porson’s edition, which Mr. Appersett lent to me.”

“I know! She was the delightful creature who cut up her brother, and cast the pieces in her papa’s way, wasn’t she? I daresay perfectly amiable when one came to know her.”

He hunched an impatient shoulder, and replied contemptuously: “You don’t understand, and it’s a waste of time to try to make you.”

Her eyes twinkled at him. “But I promise you I do! Yes, and sympathize with her, besides wishing I had her resolution! Though I think I should rather have buried your remains tidily in the garden, my dear!”