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 “If any one deserves a thorough good rest it’s you, Miss Ormerod,” said Dr. Lipscomb, who had grown a little white over the ears. “I should say the farmers of England ought to set up a statue to you, bring offerings of corn and wine—make you a kind of Goddess, eh—what was her name?”

“Not a very shapely figure for a Goddess,” said Miss Ormerod with a little laugh. “I should enjoy the wine though. You’re not going to cut me off my one glass of port surely?”

“You must remember,” said Dr. Lipscomb, shaking his head, “how much your life means to others.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Miss Ormerod, pondering a little. “To be sure, I’ve chosen my epitaph. ‘She introduced Paris Green into England,’ and there might be a word or two about the Hessian fly—that, I do believe, was a good piece of work.”

“No need to think about epitaphs yet,” said Dr. Lipscomb.

“Our lives are in the hands of the Lord,” said Miss Ormerod simply.

Dr. Lipscomb bent his head and looked out of the window. Miss Ormerod remained silent.

“English entomologists care little or nothing for objects of practical importance,” she exclaimed suddenly. “Take this question of flour infestation—I can’t say how many grey hairs that hasn’t grown me.”

“Figuratively speaking, Miss Ormerod,” said Dr. Lipscomb, for her hair was still raven black.

“Well, I do believe all good work is done in