I said fervently that I did.

He smiled at me and went on: "In a few years we were producing materials that were as good as anything that came out of France. It was hard work, but we wanted to work. We were all very poor for a long time and then we began to prosper."

"I'm glad we did," said Julia. "I should have hated to be poor."

"It's really an exciting story, don't you think so, Lenore?"

"Oh, I do. I do," I assured him.

"To come to a new country with nothing but your faith and hope and determination to succeed." His face shone with zeal. I thought: There is something very nice about Philip. I shall be sorry when he goes back to school.

"But there were endless troubles," he went on. "When the country started importing French silks the Spitalfields workers were near to starvation. People wanted French silks although those we were making were just as good. They just thought French silk sounded better than Spitalfields silk. My father told me all about the trouble they had. The people were very fierce. There were riots. The workers roamed the streets. There was no work for their looms. If they saw a woman in a calico gown they tore it off her. 'Silk! Silk!' they shouted. 'Everyone must wear Spitalfields silk!' ''

"They must have been very fierce," I said. "I should not have wanted my dress to be torn off me however good the cause."

"They were fighting for their livelihoods. They had come over here leaving behind everything they possessed; they had set up their looms; they had produced beautiful materials; and just when they were beginning to prosper, the government allowed French silk to be brought into the country and people foolishly thought it was better and sentenced our workers to starvation."

"If their work was so good why did people want to buy the French?"

"English people always think foreigners do better work than their own people. Besides the French had a reputation. They thought French clothes and materials must be better than the English. In any case, they almost put us out of business."

"Why do you feel so strongly now?" I asked. "It is all over."

"I feel for those poor people because I know how they suffered. And it could happen again."

"Poor things," said Cassie. "It must be dreadful to be hungry. And the little children too ..."

"They are the first to suffer," said Philip. "Oh, it has been a long and violent history. There was a time just over a hundred years ago when there was great trouble. The government had just signed the Treaty of Fontainebleau which allowed French silks to be brought into the country free of tax; and the workers were desperate. When the King was on his way to Parliament they decided to present a petition to the House of Commons. They were of the opinion that the Duke of Bedford had been bribed by the French to agree to the Fontainebleau Treaty. After they had marched to the House and forced an adjournment they went to Bedford House and attacked it. The guards were called out and the Riot Act read. The workers fled, but not before many of them had been trampled down by the horses. Many died. They had thought they had come to a safe haven when they left their homes, but they have had to fight all the way through to keep going."

"And they did," I said, "and all is well with them now."

He shrugged his shoulders. "One never really knows what difficulties are going to arise. That's how it is in life, Lenore."

"But people find a way out of their difficulties."

"Some do," he replied.

Julia yawned. "It is time we went back," she said.

I grew fond of Philip during those holidays. It was so different when Charles was not there. He used to come up to see Grand'mere. He would handle the bales of material knowledge-ably and talk about the weave. He was very interested in the loom she had there.

"Do you use it much?" he asked.

"When Sir Francis has something he specially wishes me to do."

She talked of Villers-Mure and the factory with the bougain-villeas on the walls and the big workroom with all the big windows letting in the light.

Philip was clearly absorbed by the subject. He talked about the new process of spinning which was turning what had hitherto been waste into good material.

"A certain Mr. Lister of Bradford has invented a special loom to do this," he told us. "It will revolutionize the trade because there must be quantities of chassum silk waste in many warehouses in London."

I did not understand a great deal of what they said but I liked to listen to them as they talked. Grand'mere's cheeks were flushed and Philip was talking enthusiastically. They liked each other and it is very pleasant when people whom one likes are interested in each other. Grand'mere made tea and we left the workroom and went into her little sitting room to drink it and continue talking. Philip told us how he would eventually be coming into the business. He found the waiting irksome. As soon as he had left the university he was to start. His father had promised him. He would have liked to dispense with the last stages of his education, but his father was adamant on that point.

'' And your brother?'' asked Grand'mere.

"Oh, he is bent on having a good time. I daresay he'll grow out of it."

"He has not your enthusiasm," Grand'mere commented.

"It will come, Madame Cleremont," Philip assured her. After all, once he begins to understand something about this fascinating business, it couldn't fail to, could it?"

She smiled at him. "I am happy that Sir Francis has you to follow him. It must be a great joy to him."

"My brother will probably be good at another side of the business. It's the actual production of silk that intrigues me . . . the whole process. Those worms feeding on the mulberry leaves . . spinning their cocoons to produce the most exquisite material in the world ..."

He talked a great deal about processes which I did not understand. I sat there in a haze of contentment watching Grand'mere and Philip liking each other more every minute.

When he had gone she showed her pleasure. As I helped her clear away the cups she was singing softly to herself: En passant par la Lorraine Avec mes sabots J'ai rencontre dans la plaine Avec mes sabots dondaines Oh, Oh, Oh, Avec mes sabots.

She always sang that when she was happy. I had asked her why once and she said she had always sung it as a child and it had always made her happy because the soldiers had thought the singer ugly. They did not know that a King's son loved her. I said: "And did she marry the King's son?" ' 'We do not know. That is why I loved the song. He had given her a bouquet de marjolaine. If it flowered she would be queen. We do not know because the song ends before it tells."

She kept smiling at me. She said: "There is one who loves this work. He is like his father. Sir Francis is lucky to have such a son."

"You like him very much, don't you, Grand'mere?" She nodded looking at me and smiling rather wistfully; and there were dreams in her eyes.

We were growing up. Julia was nearly seventeen. I was fifteen. Julia had changed; she was very anxious for us to know she was not a little girl any more.

She was to have a season in London.

Lady Sallonger talked of it often. It was one of our customs to take tea with her in the drawing room. I would often be there already, reading to her, and pausing now and then to thread the skeins of silk she needed. She was taking more and more of my time.

Julia and Cassie came down promptly at four o'clock and spent an hour with her. Clarkson would wheel in the tea trolly and Grace would stand by to pour out the tea and wait on us; but Lady Sallonger often dismissed her and dispensing the tea tell to my lot.

"Lenore can manage," she would say. Then it would be: "Lenore, a little more cream please. Oh, and do bring me one of those scones."

She would sit there, not eating, but crumbling the scone on her plate. The conversation at this time was all about Julia's coming out which would soon take place. '' Dear me, I should be there . . . but it is impossible. Lenore, my feet are quite numb. Just take off my slippers and rub them, will you? Ah ... that's better. Such a relief. In my state of health it is alas impossible. The dresses you will have to have, Julia . . . Madame Cleremont will of course make them. She will have to get some patterns. Perhaps your father can send for them from Paris. ..."

Julia clasped her hands and listened ecstatically. She was longing to be "out." She talked about it to Cassie and me. Balls, banquets . . . gaiety . . . and armies of young men all seeking her hand in marriage.

I had heard Miss Logan, who knew of such things, talking to Miss Everton. She said: "Well, of course, it's trade when all's said and done. . . and that puts a damper on it. Mind you there's money and money talks."

So Julia was to be taken forth to the marriage market to display her assets. She was young, quite pretty sometimes when she was in a good temper, and very eager to find a husband but handicapped by that label "Trade"-enhanced though by the other one: "Money."

Lady Sallonger said: "I have heard that the Countess of Bal-lader is very good. Poor soul, she needs the money now that the Earl is dead. He left her practically penniless. . . . Gambling they say, and drink ... it swallowed up the estate and on his death it all came out. Poor Countess. Of course she was not quite ... to start with. Actress or something. The Earl's third wife and he was in his dotage when he married her. Well, now she has to eke out a living this way. She's expensive but she was very good with Maria Cranley. Quite a plain little creature but she married well . . . money mind you, not much of the blue blood."

I could not resist saying that perhaps the money would bo more useful than blue blood.

''That's true, Lenore. Would you put another cushion behind my back. That's better. I get so tired. And I have dropped my fan. Oh there it is. And another cup of tea, Lenore. Take this scone away. Oh dear, it seems to have gone all over the floor. Is that Madeira cake? I'll have a piece. . . . No. I think I'll try the fruit. And more cream please. Yes, the Countess is considered to be ideal. She knows her way about society and her origins make her pushing. . . and practical. But everyone seems to have forgotten all that and the name Ballader counts for a good deal. It is a great tragedy that I, as your Mama, Julia, cannot do what should be done for you.''

She then began to discuss what dresses would be needed.

"I shall have to ask Madame Cleremont to come and see me. There will be so much to do. I don't know how I shall manage."

I could not help smiling knowing that Lady Sallonger would have very little trouble in managing, for others would do that for her.

There was talk of little else but Julia's coming out. Grand'mere was very excited about the dresses she would make for her. She did a good many sketches. I did one. Grand'mere said it should go down with the rest for approval, but she would not say it was mine until the choice was made.

Almost every afternoon we rode out together-Julia, Cassie and I. If there were three of us we were allowed to go without a groom providing we did not go beyond the little hamlet of Branches Burrow on one side and the King's Arms on the other.

The forest within five miles radius of the house was very well known to us, but to stray beyond the boundary would be most unsafe, for it was an easy place in which to lose oneself.

I shall never forget the horror of that day. We were riding through the forest and it was all so peaceful. The sun, shining through the leaves, made a dappled pattern on the ground and there was the lovely smell of damp earth in the air. Julia was talking-as she seemed constantly to be doing-of her coming out. Cassie looked thoughtful, possibly wondering with some apprehension whether she would have a season. I had no such fears to worry me. I was not sure whether I was pleased or sorry about that. I think Grand'mere was hoping I should be asked to share ... not in Julia's perhaps, but in Cassie's, which I imagined would not be such a grand undertaking.

We were coming to the lake and as we approached it I heard Hounds of shouting voices and shrieks of laughter.

"Some of the boys from the villages play round here," said Julia. "It's a favourite spot."

As we came in sight they saw us. They were scarcely boys being in their teens-sixteen or seventeen I imagined. There was a hush as we rode forward. I could not believe what I saw. Willie was tied to one of the trees.

I shouted: "Willie, what are you doing?"

The youths-there were about six of them-stared at us for a few seconds. There was something evil about them. I sensed that before I realized what they were doing.

One of them shouted: "They're from the house." And they all sprang into action and ran.

I leaped from my horse and went to Willie. He was incoherent, trying to speak to us, but he could not find the words. There was an expression of fixed horror on his face. Julia and Cassie had come up.

"Oh look," said Julia pointing.

Then I saw. It was the mongrel dog. He was tied to another tree. There was blood on his coat and he was lying very still.

I untied Willie.' 'What happened?'' I cried. He did not answer. He ran to the dog and took it in his arms. It made no sound and was unaware of him so I knew it was dead. Those boys had killed it. How could they do such a cruel senseless thing?

"Tell us what happened," said Julia.

But still he did not answer. He stood holding the dog against him. I noticed that one of its legs was broken.

"Willie," said Cassie gently, "could you tell us what happened?"

Willie shook his head in abject misery.

"It was those boys," said Julia. "Oh they are wicked. Willie, what made them do it?"

But it was no use trying to speak to him. He could only think of one thing: his dog was dead.

There was no one Willie had ever loved as he had loved that dog; and no one had ever loved Willie as that little creature had. They had found each other, comforted each other and lived for each other. And now he had been wantonly killed by mindless boys whose aim had been to inflict pain on a helpless animal and a poor lad whom they considered to be inferior to themselves.

I did not know how we were going to comfort him.

Cassie was crying silently. I think that helped him to realize we cared.

"Willie," I pleaded, "if you try to tell us what happened ..."

He spoke suddenly. "We was by the lake . . . sitting . . . looking. They came and laughed at us. I didn't look at them. Then one of them said: 'You do like the lake, don't you?' And they took me and tried to throw me in."

He looked at the dog in his arms and went on: "He bit him . . . when he laid hands on me ... he bit him."

"I hope badly," I said.

"Then they put the ropes on me and they took him up and tied him to the tree and they threw stones at him."

"I shall tell Carter about this," I said. "They ought to be punished."

"It can't bring back the poor little thing," Julia pointed out.

"It will show them what happens to hooligans."

But I knew that Carter had no jurisdiction over boys who did not belong to our stables.

"We shall have to bury him, Willie," I said.

Willie began to walk away with the dog in his arms.

We mounted our horses and made our way to the stables where we found the head groom Carter and told him what had happened.

"Did you see what boys they were?" asked Carter.

"We didn't know them. They ran off when we appeared."

'' He thought the world of that dog.'' That is why they did what they did," I said. "I wish we could find them. I think they should be severely punished."

'' If it was any of my stable lads I'd see that they heard from me. None of them, I hope, would do such a thing."

'' Willie will have to be gently treated."

'' The Missus will see to that. We'll have to get rid of the dog. I fancy he might want to keep it. He's very simple in lots of ways. ''

We left him and went sadly home. We were all deeply shocked and Julia did not mention her coming out for a whole day.

I knew enough of Willie to realize that he would not want to give up the dog. He would rather have it dead than not at all.

It would soon be forcibly taken from him, and I decided to see what I could do. I found a little box of stiff cardboard and some twine and went in search of him. I did not think he would be by the lake but he was. He was seated beside that tree to which they had tied the dog and he was holding the animal in his arms.

I said: "Willie, we shall have to give him a burial. He can't be happy like that."

"They'll take him away from me."

"Yes," I said. "So let us give him a proper burial and then they won't." I held out the box to him. "He wants to rest," I went on. "He's tired. He must be left in peace to sleep."