"No, I'm not," she answered frankly. "I suppose it does belong to him, as a matter of fact. But the whole purpose of the Civic League I formed among the village negroes was to keep their quarters decent. If it fails of that—Well, the Madam giveth, and the Madam taketh away." She shot him a mischievous glance. "Evidently you don't approve of me, Philip?"
"Of you. Not of your ethics, perhaps. They 're rather—feminine."
She shrugged. "Oh, well—feminine ethics are enough for Storm village. They have to be," she said, succinctly.
Before them, outlined against the red round of the low sun, stood the rambling gray outlines of a house, topping a small hill. From one of its huge chimneys a pennant of smoke waved hospitably. The mare whinnied, and chafed a little against the bit.
"Clover smells her oats," said Mrs. Kildare, "and I smell Big Liza's ginger-bread. It makes me hungry. Let's go faster."
He did not seem to hear her. She glanced at his preoccupied face, wondering at this unusual indifference to Big Liza's ginger-bread. "What is it, Philip?"
"I have been thinking how to begin," he said slowly. "I've got to talk to you about something disagreeable."
"Surely you can talk to me about anything, without 'beginning'?"
"Well—I want to ask you to do something very unpleasant. To evict a tenant. Mag Henderson."
"That girl? But why?"