Mrs George de Horne Vaizey (continued 2)

“What, par exemple, are you going to do?”

“Study the brute! Study his fads. Join the golf club, for one thing, and learn to listen intelligently, at the cost of a few miserable afternoons. I detest sports, and sporting clothes, and strong boots, and a red face, and tramping about mile after mile over rough ground. If we’d been intended to walk we should have had four legs; but I shall very soon pick up all that is necessary!”

“Why not go a little further, while you are about it, and play with your husband? You might take lessons from the pro. to get up your game, and then you could go to the links together in the afternoons. If you are determined to sacrifice yourself, you may as well do it thoroughly. He’d be so pleased!”

“I’m not so sure,” Grizel said shrewdly. “I’m his wife and he adores me, but he’d rather play golf with a boring man with a good handicap, and come home to find me sitting on a sofa looking pretty and fluffy, ready to acclaim his exploits, and listen to volumes about every hole, and the marvellous way in which he cleeked his tee off the bogie. Well! what is it? Don’t you call it a bogie?” She laughed herself, in sympathy with the other’s merriment, and ended with an involuntary: “Lady Cassandra! I’m so glad you came. Do let us often laugh together! I have such a comfortable feeling that you won’t be shocked at anything I say.”

“No one ever shocks me, except myself. You don’t know how glad I shall be. I’m really rather a lonely person, though I’ve lived here so long. It seems extraordinary to have had this intimate conversation with you on our very first meeting. I wouldn’t dream of discussing such matters with any other woman in the neighbourhood.”

“Of course not. You don’t know anyone else so well. We are intimates, so what’s the use of hedging?”

“I don’t want to hedge. I’m only too thankful to know it. It’s not healthy to live so much alone. One grows introspective. These last years I’ve been growing more and more absorbed in Cassandra Raynor.”

“Well! she is attractive, isn’t she? I’m going to do exactly the same. I felt it in my bones the moment you entered the room. You felt it too! I saw the little spark leap to your eyes.”

“It did. It’s quite true, but I ought to warn you that being associated with me, won’t make you any more popular in Chumley. Chumley doesn’t—approve of me! I expect you are sensitive enough to atmospheres to have grasped that fact for yourself?”

“I did. Yes. But why?”

“Oh, many reasons. I dress fashionably. I hate parish work. I don’t go to ‘teas,’ or give them in return. I’m lazy about calls. I’m not interested in the people, and I can’t pretend.”

“Oh, but I shall be interested. I always am. I love all those dear old things in their dolmans and black silks. They are types of the old-fashioned women, whom I’ve read about, but never known. I shall love studying them, and hearing their views, and shocking them by telling them mine in return. They’ll love being shocked—all prim old ladies love it. They’re all walking home now, buzzing over my faux pas, and feeling as perked up as if they’d been to the theatre. They think they are grieved, but they have really enjoyed themselves immensely. I lived with a very old great-aunt before my marriage, so I’m an expert in old ladies.”

Cassandra assented absently. She was not interested in old ladies, but she was interested in watching Grizel as she talked. Her practised eye took in every detail of her appearance, and every detail was right. She studied her features, her expression, the waves of her soft fair hair, the swiftly moving hands, and sat smiling, appearing to listen, while her thoughts raced ahead, planning future meetings, seeing herself blessed with a friend who would fill the empty gap.

“I shall be jealous of the old ladies if you give them too much of your company!” she said, with a charming smile which accentuated the flattery of the remark. Grizel smiled back with a little nod of acknowledgment, and Cassandra lifted her muff as if preparing to depart, asking casually the while:

“Have you good news of your sister-in-law, Miss Beverley? I knew her slightly, and admired her a great deal. She went to India, I think?”

Grizel’s eyes danced with animation.

“She did. Yes. To visit a friend. We saw her off at Marseilles, my husband and I, and a fortnight later we were sitting in a café, drinking coffee, and flirting outrageously, when we suddenly saw the name of the ship on a poster! It had been in a collision in the Indian Ocean; and the passengers had to take to the boats. If another ship had not come to the rescue, they might all have been drowned.”

“What a terrible experience! How sad for the poor girl, just when she was starting for such a delightful visit!”

“Not at all sad. Not at all. A very good thing,” said Grizel unexpectedly. “Katrine had been wading through trivialities all her life; a big experience was just what she needed. Besides—as a matter of fact... there was a Man!”

“Aha!” cried Cassandra, immediately fired with feminine interest. “On the ship?”

“Pre-cisely! Fastening her into life-belts, bidding her a tragic adieu, waving a gallant hand from the sinking prow.”

“Just so. I understand! And when is the wedding to be?”

Grizel’s face lengthened in dismay.

“Goodness me—I haven’t told you, have I? No one is to know for a couple of months. How on earth did you guess? Please don’t speak of it to a soul. You see, it’s a trifle awkward, because as a matter of fact the real man,—it wasn’t the real man,—I mean it was the real man really, only he pretended—”

Cassandra held up a protesting hand.

“I think you’d better leave it alone! You didn’t tell me anything; I guessed, but I’ll promise to forget forthwith, and be agreeably surprised when I hear the news a few months hence. Don’t tell me any names!”

Before Grizel could reply the whizz of an electric bell sounded through the house, and both women involuntarily groaned, foreseeing an end to their tête-à-tête, but the next moment Grizel’s eyes brightened.

“It’s a man!” she whispered ecstatically. “It’s a man. I can hear his dear boots! My first man caller! Oh joy! Oh rapture!”

“Captain Peignton.”

Dane entered, his eyes narrowed in his usual, short-sighted fashion. Cassandra noticed that he threw a quick glance round the room and guessed, what was indeed the truth, that he had hoped to meet Teresa Mallison, and have an opportunity of escorting her home. When he caught sight of herself, his face showed a ripple of feeling that came and went before she could decipher its meaning. Then he sat down, and made conversation to Grizel, and was smiled at in return with a display of dimples which seemed to have sprung into existence for his benefit. Certainly the old ladies had not been treated to them; even Cassandra herself had come off second best, for Grizel was essentially a man’s woman, who awoke to her highest self in the presence of the opposite sex. It was easy to see that the present visitor was making a favourable impression, and that Grizel was alive to the charm which Cassandra had found it so difficult to define.

Looking on in silence during the first moments of conversation, Cassandra was not so sure that Peignton reciprocated his hostess’s approval. Her light flow of conversation seemed to disconcert rather than put him at his ease, his answers came with difficulty, his eyes had none of their usual brightness. Well! the man who could fall in love with Teresa Mallison would hardly be likely to appreciate Grizel Beverley. Cassandra made up her mind to take her departure, but some minutes elapsed before she really rose, and then to her surprise Peignton also made his farewells, and accompanied her to the door. Outside, the car stood waiting, and as he helped her into it and held out his hand in farewell, his face in the fading light looked pale and tired, and Cassandra spoke on a quick impulse:

“Can I give you a lift? It will be just as quick to go round by the cross roads. Unless you prefer to walk...”

“Thank you, I’d be grateful. I’ve had a heavy day!”

He seated himself beside her, and the car sped smoothly down the narrow road. For some moments neither spoke, but Cassandra was conscious of a pleasurable tingling of excitement. She had had so many lonely drives seated in solitary state among the luxurious fitments of her Rolls Royce, that the presence of a companion was in itself an agreeable novelty. Besides, as she reminded herself, she had a double reason in being interested in Dane Peignton, since both for Bernard’s sake and Teresa’s it was her duty to cultivate the friendship. She turned towards him, met the brown eyes, and smiled involuntarily. They were nice eyes!

“Well! what do you think of the bride?”

“Just what I was going to ask you!”

“I agree with Teresa. She is adorable!”

The mention of Teresa aroused no flicker in his face. His brows contracted in consideration.

“Is she? I’m not so sure. She does not strike me as a woman of very deep feeling.”

“You would not say that, if you had heard her talking before you came in!”

“Wouldn’t I? That’s interesting. What was she talking about?”

“Oh!” The blood mounted into Cassandra’s cheeks, she felt a sudden unaccountable shyness. “Marriage! The relationship of husband and wives—that sort of thing.”

Peignton laughed: a breezy laugh without a touch of self-consciousness.

“Naturally! I might have known it. What else could you expect? She is a bride, and head over heels in love,—must have been, to give up all she did—naturally she’d want to prattle to another woman. Boring for you, though, as you know so much more of the game.”

Cassandra looked at him thoughtfully. The electric light overhead showed the small oval face, with the rose flush on the cheek, the soft greys of the furs round her throat. The words came slowly.

“Do you know—it’s a strange thing to confess,—but I don’t! She is a bride of two months, and I’ve been married ten years—but she realises things now, that I’ve passed by. She sees deeper into the difficulties. She feels more, not less.”

“You are too modest,” Dane said quickly, his brown eyes softening in involuntary admiration of the beautiful sad face. “Nothing is easier than to talk big, before the event. We can all theorise, and lay down the law; the tug comes when we begin to act. Mrs Beverley is living in Utopia at present, and talks the language thereof. Very exalted and charming, no doubt, but—it isn’t real! You should not take her too seriously.”

Cassandra did not reply. It was not for her to betray another woman’s confidence, and for the moment she was occupied with the side-light which Peignton’s words had given her concerning his own sentiments.—Grizel Beverley believed in the reality of her Utopia, and intended to preserve it at the point of the sword; Peignton proclaimed it a delusion before he had even come into possession. Such an attitude was not natural, was not right. He was not temperamentally a cold-blooded man, the latent strength of his nature made itself felt, despite the indifference of his pose, and Teresa was young and pretty and fresh. Once more the older woman felt a stirring of pity for the younger. It was as the champion of Teresa’s youth that she spoke at last.

“You seem to have no illusions! Isn’t it rather a pity, at your...”

“Stage of the game?” He finished the sentence for her with unruffled composure. “I think not, Lady Cassandra. To expect too much, is to invite disappointment. I’m not very young, and my experience has shown me that for most people, life resolves itself into making the most of a second best. Things don’t turn out as they expect. They set out to gain a certain prize, and they don’t gain it, or if they do, something unexpected creeps in to rub off the bloom. Don’t think I’m morbid. I’m not; I’ve no reason to be. There’s a lot of good, steady-going happiness open to all of us, if we are sensible enough to take it, and not lose our chance by expecting too much.”

“You are very philosophical. Generally speaking, I suppose you are right, but we were talking of marriage, when even the most matter-of-fact people are supposed to have illusions. There are not many girls who would accept a lover who did not believe, for the time, at least, that he would be happy ever after if he could secure her as a companion.”

“Oh, well!” he said, laughing. “Oh, well!”

Cassandra was left to infer that there were occasions when exaggeration was legitimate; occasions even when a man might succeed in blindfolding himself, but the concession did not alter the inward conviction. Once more she relapsed into silence, considering his words. Peignton was one of the rare people with whom it was not necessary to carry on a continuous flow of conversation. One could be silent, pursuing one’s own thoughts with a comfortable assurance that he was mentally keeping touch, and that when speech came it would be to pronounce a mutual decision.

“A second best!” Those were the words which had burned themselves on Cassandra’s brain. Life for the majority of people resolved itself into making the most of a second best. There was plenty of good, steady-going happiness in store for those who were sensible enough to take it, and not waste their time straining after the unattainable. The doctrine was distinctly bracing for those who had fallen into the trough of disappointment. Cassandra made a mental note to think over its axioms at her leisure. She had come to the stage when philosophy might have its turn, but, oh, it was good to remember that there had been a day when she had not philosophised, had not reasoned, had not made the best of anything, because youth and hope had already placed that best in her hands! What if it had been a delusion,—she had had her hour, and nothing that life could bring could take away its memory!

There stabbed through her heart a passion of pity for the man who was so calmly ignoring the glory of life. She turned towards him, her eyes dark with earnestness.

“Ah, no, it’s a mistake. Why be satisfied with makeshifts, when there’s a chance of the best? To be too easily satisfied is as foolish as to expect too much; more foolish, for you miss the dream! If the reality fails, one can always look backward and remember the dream.”

Peignton’s air of absorption had no personal reference. The words had passed over his head in so far as they applied to himself. He was looking at Cassandra and saying deep in his heart: “That woman! To grow tired of her! And Raynor! he can never have been worthy to black her boots.” Peignton had a hatred of waste, and it was waste of the worst sort to find this adorable woman thrown away on a man who was quite obtrusively unappreciative. There was such unconscious commiseration in his glance, that Cassandra drew back sharply.

“Goodness, how serious we are growing! It’s the rarest thing in the world for me to theorise. It must be the pernicious effect of paying calls. I’m not responsible for anything I say after being cooped up with rows of women discussing cooks, and Mothers’ Meetings. Forgive me if I’ve bored you!”

“I’m not bored. I’ll think over what you say. I expect you are right, and I’m wrong. When one is obliged to slack physically, as I’ve done these last years, the mind is apt to slack in sympathy. It is a sort of slacking to be content with makeshifts. I must brace up, and aim at the sky, or if a makeshift is inevitable, at least one can use a little deception and pretend that it is the best.”

“Could you do that?”

Cassandra’s eyes were incredulous, but Peignton smiled with easy assurance.

“Oh, yes, certainly. If I chose. It’s a question of temperament. It is always easier to me to be happy, than the other thing. One adapts oneself—”

The car stopped at the cross roads and Cassandra held out her hand in farewell. The melancholy air had disappeared, an elf of mischief danced in her eyes.

“Captain Peignton, you are hopelessly prosaic. It must be a second best after all, for the dream would be wasted upon you. The second best, and—shall I help you to it?”

“Do!” he cried, and they parted with a mutual laugh. It was only after the car had whizzed ahead and he was left alone upon the road, that it occurred to him to connect Teresa Mallison with the offer.

“Poor little girl. Too bad!” he said to himself then, and there was tenderness in his eyes, tenderness in his heart. With every conscious thought he was loyal to Teresa, yet one thing puzzled him,—when apart from her, he found it impossible to visualise the girl’s face. As often as he tried to summon it, it eluded him; he could see nothing but the sweep of dark hair across a white brow, the oval of delicately flushed cheeks, a little chin nestled deep into grey furs. And Raynor was indifferent to her,—indifferent to that woman!

Chapter Six.

The East End.

Mrs Mallison was one of the kindest of women; she was also one of the most exasperating. She herself was complacently aware of the first fact, and referred to it frequently in conversation, enumerating her benefactions with obvious satisfaction: of the latter attribute she remained blandly, blindly unaware. The combination is frequent, the havoc wrought thereby in domestic circles widespread throughout the land. Mrs Mallison rose early from preference. Having reached a time of life when she required little sleep, she found it a relief to rise at seven, and by an exercise of logic, unanswerable to her own judgment, considered it incumbent upon the whole household to experience a similar briskness. She read a chapter of the Bible and the day’s portion of Daily Light before leaving her bedroom, and prayed sadly to be preserved throughout the trials and temptations of the day. To expect happiness she would have considered a flippant attitude, unworthy a professing Christian, the glad morning face had no justification in her eyes.

“Well, Bailey! I wonder what trials the Lord has in store for me to-day!” she would sigh meekly to the old servant who brought her early tea, and sallying forth from her bedroom, thus expectant, seldom failed to encounter several minor trials on the way downstairs: Dust; grease; marks on white paint. It was usually a chastened Mrs Mallison who took her seat behind the urn.

Mrs Mallison had an active mind and a cumbersome body. This combination is also widely known, and deplored by grown-up daughters. No sooner had an idea entered her mind, than she wished it put into instant execution—by a daughter. Whatever the daughter might be doing, however responsible might be her work, she must leave it, dismiss it from her mind, be ready with heart and will to execute her mother’s behests. Such was a daughter’s duty; to fail in it was to risk references to serpents’ teeth, and to that subsequent burden of remorse, to be borne by the delinquent, when death should have removed her mother to another sphere. Mary Mallison found it simpler to give in at once, leave a letter half-written, or a photographic plate half-toned, and adjourn upstairs to move the position of jars on the storeroom shelves, or make sure that a drawer was safely locked. She would even rise in the middle of her breakfast, and walk meekly into the drawing-room to feel if the palms needed water; but Mary was thirty-two, and anaemic into the bargain, and her axiom in life was, “For goodness’ sake, let us have peace!” It was easier to walk a dozen yards into the drawing-room, than to be talked at for the rest of the meal. Mary obeyed, swallowing a constant mental revolt, the strain of which showed in her wan bloodless face. Long ago, when she was twenty-four, she had loved a curate, and the curate had not loved her in return. No man had ever loved her; it was to the last degree unlikely that anyone ever would. Mary offered automatic thanks weekly for the gift of creation, and smothered as wicked the wonder what she had been created for? She also, like her mother, wondered drearily what troubles lay ahead.

Teresa was young, and pretty, and had been educated at a public school. She had inherited from her mother a fair skin, flaxen locks, a strong will, and a pertinacity of purpose which might in time develop to disagreeable proportions. In the meantime she was the admired youngest member of a plain and heavy family, and was by nature affectionate and appreciative. It was only on occasions that Mrs Mallison was conscious of running up against a dead rock when she opposed her will to that of her youngest daughter; only in glimmering rays of light that she realised that what Teresa desired, almost inevitably came to pass. Over and over again the same thing happened. Teresa had come forward with a proposition: consent had been withheld, Teresa had withdrawn. Weeks, even months had passed by; to all appearance Teresa had abandoned the proposition, and then suddenly it crystallised, it became fact. Quietly, placidly, Teresa had bided her time, clinging with limpet-like determination to her point, moving the pawns on the board, waiting for the right moment to make the final dash.

Teresa had left the proud position of head girl in a great school to vegetate in a dull country town, dust the drawing-room, arrange flowers, make her own blouses, and “keep up her music,” and had found the routine as unsatisfactory as does every other modern girl. The Mallisons were comfortably off—that is to say, they had a small detached house, in a good-sized garden, kept two indoor maids, and a man who looked after the garden and drove the shabby dog-cart. They were also able to pay their bills with praiseworthy regularity, and to take a yearly holiday en famille. They likewise allowed each daughter thirty pounds a year for dress and pocket money, and would have strongly resented an insinuation that they were not acting generously in so doing. Mary had “managed” on thirty for a dozen years. Teresa managed for two, and then relinquished the struggle. She made no moan, for moans would have had no avail, except to bring about her ears a harvest of precepts. Teresa informed her sister that “they must be shown,” and she proceeded to show them. She bought no new dress, she went about with her parents in aggressively shabby clothes, she walked incredible distances to save twopences, and thereby made herself late for meals; in short she demonstrated to her old-fashioned parents, that if they wished to possess a pretty, creditable daughter they must be prepared to pay for her. The allowance was increased to fifty, and Mary languished beneath a sense of injury. Thirty had been considered enough for her!

On the morning after Grizel Beverley’s reception the Mallison quartette was assembled at breakfast in the stiff, sunless morning room. Mrs Mallison poured out coffee; Major Mallison sat facing her before the silver bacon dish, the morning light streaming in on his tired, discouraged face. Mary sat on the right, opposite the toast-rack and the egg-stand. Teresa on the left, by the marmalade and honey jar. The Morning Post lay neatly folded on the sideboard. Mrs Mallison approved of sociability at meals; conversation helped digestion. When the Major declared that he loathed general conversation at breakfast, and would rather be left in peace than listen to the finest conversationalist alive, he was told that he was unamiable and selfish, and a burden of regret prophesied for him also “when he had no one to talk to!”

Mrs Mallison poured out four cups of coffee, made her usual lament re the price of bacon, and cast a disapproving eye on Teresa’s blue crêpe blouse.

“I thought, my dear, that you were going to church this morning to decorate the chancel.”

“I am, Mother.”

“In that blouse?”

“Certainly. Why not?”

“Most unsuitable. Too light. A dark flannel is the right thing for the occasion. You will have time to change it before you start. Don’t forget!”

Teresa cast down her eyes and applied herself steadily to bacon. She had not the slightest intention of wearing a dark flannel blouse. The blue crêpe had been chosen, not for its durability, but that it might look pleasant in the eyes of Dane Peignton. All the mothers in the world could not have made Teresa change it; so what was the use of discussing the point! She gave the conversation an adroit little switch.

“Don’t wait lunch for me, Mother. I shall probably go to the Vicarage. We shall need all our time.”

“We are having fried steak. If you come at all, you must be punctual. If it’s done too long, all the strength has gone. I could give you sandwiches to eat in the vestry. Or it might be stewed. If papa did not object, it could quite well be stewed. He dislikes the onions. If we had carrots instead, would you object, papa? But, of course, there’s the flavour. Carrots are not so seasoning... Perhaps it had better be sandwiches. Mary, is there a glass of that chicken and ham paste? See if there’s a glass, dear. Cook could make some nice fresh sandwiches.”

Mary moved automatically, but Teresa stopped her with a waving hand.

“I loathe sandwiches. I shall go somewhere and have a proper lunch. Don’t bother, Mother.”

“My dear,” said Mrs Mallison reproachfully, “I am your mother. When you have a tiring day before you I am naturally anxious that you should be fed. They will be busy at the Vicarage. Cold meat and salad. One could hardly expect more, but you are accustomed to a hot dish. It is the day for steak, but if papa didn’t object we might change. I don’t care for changes as a rule, it upsets the servants, but just for once.—A chicken now! You like chicken. Just run to the telephone, dear, and tell Bates to send one up. Good, roasting. Three and six. If papa doesn’t mind.”

Not a flicker of expression passed over the Major’s face. He was the Jorkins of the establishment, and knew well that, useful as he might be for purposes of quotation, he was negligible as a working factor. He continued resignedly to partake of bacon. Teresa vouchsafed an appreciative smile.

“We’ll have fowl for dinner. Plenty of time when the boy calls. I’m going out to lunch, Mother. I’d rather. It’s part of the fun.”

Mrs Mallison sighed. Here was one of the expected trials. A daughter, unappreciative, preferring to roam abroad, oblivious of the fact that after a morning’s church decorating she would be in possession of a harvest of small talk which a mother would naturally desire to hear. Who decorated the lectern; who the finials; who did the windows this year? The windows were the least coveted post. A mother whose daughter had been honoured with the east end would naturally feel agreeable sympathy for the mother of those who wrestled modestly with window-sills. Then also there were subsidiary interests. Who brought the Squire’s flowers? Did Lady Cassandra drive down? Was the Vicar tiresome about nails? Exactly what did everyone present say about Teresa’s scheme of colour? The good lady felt it hard that she should have to wait until evening to satisfy her interest on these thrilling points. She set her lips and said to herself, “Certainly not! If young people have no consideration for others, they cannot expect to be indulged. Not fowl. Roast end of the neck.”

At the side of the table Mary sighed, and stared dejectedly into space. Eight years ago she had been asked to “do” the east end, and the curate had been by her side all day helping her, reaching to high places, bending down, taking the vases from her hand. After all these years she could still see before her every line of the smooth boyish face. He had never loved her, he had gone away and married another girl, but he had been admiring and attentive; several times in the course of that day he had made her sit down to rest; at tea at the Vicarage he had placed a cushion behind her back. In Mary’s starved life such small incidents took the place of romance. She looked across the table at her sister, not so much with envy, as with pity. Poor Trissie! she also was dreaming; she also must awake. And Teresa understood the glance and set her red lips. She had not the least intention in the world of following in Mary’s footsteps. Thirty-two should never find her dragging along at home! She thought of Dane Peignton with the warm glow at the heart which always accompanied the thought. If Dane did not “care,” her dearest hope would be blasted, but it was characteristic of Teresa that she could put aside the possibility, and be assured that even Dane himself could not spoil her life, or reduce her to Mary’s apathy of indifference.

After breakfast came “Worship,” when the maids came in and sat on two chairs placed as near as possible to the door, and the mistress of the house read aloud a chapter in the Bible, followed by a long prayer from a book entitled Family Devotions. The chapter this morning was taken from Judges, and had little obvious bearing on the lives of the hearers. It is doubtful if anyone attended after the first few verses. The cook was listening for the tradesmen’s bell. If it rang in the middle of Worship it was understood that she was to rise softly and creep out. Under such circumstances it was, as she expressed it, difficult to “settle down.” The housemaid was thinking of her young man. Teresa was considering her scheme of decoration. Major Mallison and Mary were resignedly sitting it out. For the prayer everyone rose and knelt down, but the mental attitude remained unchanged. They rose once more with sighs of relief.

After breakfast Teresa dusted the drawing-room, made her own bed, and hung over the banisters listening for the moment when her mother should begin telephoning orders to the tradespeople, when she herself might leave the house without fear of further questioning as to the blue blouse. She expanded her shoulders with a sigh of relief on reaching the open air, and sped along the quiet road with the feeling of escape which every member of the Mallison household experienced when the gate was safely closed, before a shrill recall had sounded from door or window.

Teresa’s thoughts that morning were occupied as many another daughter’s have been before her, in pondering the astonishing problem of her parents’ youth. Father and Mother in love! Father ardent, Mother shy! Father and Mother exchanging love glances; engrossed in one another’s society. Could such things be? And if so—lacerating thought!—could they be again? In thirty years’ time could Teresa and Dane...

Teresa flushed violently. She had not prayed at Family Worship. She had been frankly and emphatically bored, but she prayed now, walking along the public road, in her blue coat and fashionable jam-pot hat, she lifted her eyes to the grey skies, and the voice in her heart cried earnestly: “I’ll make him happy! Help me to keep him happy! Give him to me, and make me a good wife.” A glow of tenderness softened the hard young eyes. “Make me good,” cried Teresa, “For Dane’s sake!”

She was the first to arrive at the church, before even the Vicar’s wife. Was she not the honoured young worker, to whom had been entrusted the decoration of the east end? A mass of daffodils, wallflowers, and primroses lay banked in baskets along the aisles. These were the contributions of the poorer members of the community, the villagers and owners of small gardens. Outside the chancel rails were ranged rows of growing bulbs in pots, hyacinths, narcissus, the finer variety of daffodils, great trumpet-like heads of white and cream, orange and gold. These were the first contribution from the Court; later on the carriage would bring down a hamper of flowers, freshly cut and fragrant. The sexton came forward with a box containing the tin vases and fitments provided for such occasions, and delivered the usual warning about nails. The Vicar would allow no nails. Teresa took off her long coat and placed it in a pew; the blue of her blouse seemed to take an added richness from the austerity of the surroundings. How glad she was that she had disobeyed her mother and kept it on!

Presently the Vicarage party arrived, and quickly following one after another the helpers. Teresa lifted the flower-pots one by one and placed them behind the delicate tracery of the oak screen, so that the pots themselves were hidden and the carved openings appeared to give a vista into a sweet spring garden.

All the while she worked, she kept a strained outlook for Dane’s appearance. When another helper approached, and would have loitered in conversation, she made a speedy excuse for hurrying away, lest he should come now, and their meeting be marred; when her back was turned to the aisle she listened for the sound of his footsteps. At any moment he might enter, stand by her side, call to her in his full, rich tones: “Miss Teresa!”

Eleven o’clock came, and he had not appeared; half-past eleven. All the pots were arranged. Intentionally Teresa had lingered over the work, dreading to begin the more elaborate decorations which would require aid. If she were seen mounting a stool, some of the men helpers would at once come forward to assist; and Dane entering and seeing her thus provided, might attach himself to someone else. A dull ache of disappointment filled Teresa’s heart. If he really cared; if the opportunity meant to him what it did to herself, he would not have wasted the hours. She put her last pot in its place, stood back to view the effect, and heard at last the longed-for words of welcome.

“Miss Teresa—here I am; bright and early, you see! What have you got for me to do?”

He was smiling, composed, unconscious of offence. The ache sharpened into pain at the realisation, but Teresa had a wisdom beyond her years, and allowed no sign of disappointment to become visible. To sulk and looked aggrieved was not the way to increase a man’s admiration. She smiled into his eyes, and cried readily:

“Heaps of things! I need you for all the stretchy places. You are so big. And those great palms... They have to go into the corners. Will you help me to move them?”

“Certainly not. I’ll do it myself. Just point out where they are to go. What’s the good of me if I can’t save you fatigue?”

The tenderness of his smile was as ointment of healing, but true to her principles Teresa averted her eyes, and put on her most business-like manner, so that no answering sign of tenderness might be visible. Not to the verger himself had her manner been more cool and detached, but Dane showed no sign of dissatisfaction. They had met to work, not to make love; he admired the girl for her brisk, capable ways, and found pleasure in the sight of her alert young figure clad in the short skirt, stout boots, and untrimmed hat. They worked industriously for the next half-hour, banking up comers of palms, covering the foremost pots with a velvety cushion of moss. Side by side they knelt on the marble floor, pulling apart the fragrant sods, patting them into shape. Once when a rebellious morsel refused to remain in place Teresa fumbled among her yellow locks for a hairpin to act as skewer, whereupon Dane made a quick movement to withdraw her hand.

“No, no, it’s covered with soil! ... Let me!” He covered his finger and thumb with a handkerchief, carefully extracted the nearest pin, and held it towards her. “That’s better! It’s too bad to soil your pretty hair. You’ve got loads of hair, haven’t you? I love to see a girl with good hair. How far does it come down?”

“Past my waist.” Teresa’s conscience pricked her on account of one braid which could come down as far as required, but there seemed no immediate need for confession on that score. Her cheeks were flushed, she took a long time over the last arrangement of moss, pondering uneasily. Had anyone seen? What would they think? She hoped to goodness that Miss Mason’s eyes had been averted! What Miss Mason saw at noon, was parish news by sunfall... “By the by, you’ll be interested to hear that Teresa Mallison is engaged to that young Peignton. I saw him distinctly stroking her hair.” In imagination she could hear the thin, clipped voice scattering the news broadcast. And in time it would come to Dane’s own ears...

Teresa rose and cast a searching glance round the church. No one was looking, the workers were engrossed and preoccupied. The Vicar’s wife was affixing a cross of daffodils to the front of the pulpit, the doctor’s daughters were trimming the lectern with stiff little bunches of daffodils. All down the aisle workers were twisting sprays of ivy round the tall gas standards, in the discreet background dowdy nobodies were wrestling with window-sills. The Vicar’s wife held firmly to the theory of universal brotherhood, but it would never have occurred to her to ask a wealthy parishioner to “do” the windows, or a tradesman’s wife to undertake the east end. Teresa and Dane left the chancel and stood hesitating at the head of the aisle. Now they were ready for the cut flowers, and the cut flowers had not arrived.

“The Squire promised to send down. I wrote again last night to remind him. He can’t have forgotten.”

“Oh, no. They’ll be here soon. There’s a car at the door now.” Peignton peered forward, looking down the length of the aisle into the sunlit churchyard beyond, and the girl watching him, as she loved to do at unobserved moments, saw a sudden light come into the lazy eyes. She peered in her turn, and beheld a small grey foot emerge from the door of the car, then a second foot, and finally a tall figure, grey-robed, grey-furred, which stood aside, sharply outlined against the darkness of the background, and waited for the descent of still another figure, coated in white.

Lady Cassandra! ... she had come herself, and with her Mrs Martin Beverley. They were driving about together in the morning, a sign of intimacy more eloquent than a dozen afternoon meetings. They were smiling into each other’s faces as they walked up the church path, talking with the ease of lifelong friends.

Teresa felt a pang of jealousy, not of Dane Peignton,—these women were married and could have no interest for him,—but for herself, and her position in the Raynor household. Proud as she had been of the degree of intimacy to which she had been admitted, in her heart she had acknowledged the presence of a barrier shutting her out from personal friendship. She had been a favoured acquaintance, nothing more, and now a friend had appeared, and the acquaintance must needs stand aside.

Up the church aisle came the two women, side by side, graver now as befitted their surroundings, yet bringing with them a whiff of the world of gaiety and fashion, the influence of which spread subtly over the feminine body of workers. The Vicar’s wife pulled down her cuffs, and brushed the leaves from her gown; the doctor’s daughters arranged stray locks, and placed themselves in artistic attitudes around the desk, and from the background poor Miss Bruce looked on with widened eyes.

Cassandra came forward to shake hands with Mrs Evans, the natural hostess of the occasion.

“Good morning, Mrs Evans. How busy you all are! I drove down with the flowers, and brought Mrs Beverley with me. The groom is bringing them in. We promised Miss Mallison—”

She looked around, caught sight of Teresa and Peignton standing side by side, and nodded, faintly smiling. The affair was progressing then! No need for outside help. Teresa, flushed and happy, the blue of her blouse setting off the pink and white of her complexion, looked her most attractive self. Cassandra envied her, pitied her, felt an inexplicable irritation with her, all at the same moment, but being bred in the school which considers the suppression of feeling to be the first axiom of good manners, her smile of greeting remained unchanged.

The vases for the altar had been carried into a vestry, where they stood on a table ready to be filled. The groom was directed where to carry his hamper, and the two visitors followed, talking in undertones to Teresa and Dane as they went. Inside the room itself there was a greater sense of freedom, and their voices instantly heightened in tone. They had an air of having nothing to do, and of being indifferent as to how long they stayed, which was far from welcome to one at least of the workers.

Teresa had planned exactly how the vases were to be arranged, and had anticipated a happy half-hour, alone with Dane, free from the observation of curious eyes. She was capable of carrying out her own ideas, and wished for no assistance. It was Peignton who made the unwelcome suggestion that Cassandra should remain to help.

“I’m out of this!” he said, shrugging. “Never arranged flowers in my life, and don’t know how to begin. Dragging about palms is more in my line, but that’s done now, and I’m no more use. Sorry to be such a broken reed, Miss Teresa! Perhaps Lady Cassandra—” He looked at Cassandra, and once again his eyes lightened, as if what they beheld was good in his sight. “I am sure you know how to arrange flowers!”

“Oh, yes,” Cassandra said calmly, “I’m supposed to be quite good. Well, Teresa, I am at your service. You are in command. Issue your instructions! Mrs Beverley, you won’t mind waiting a short time?”

“Oh, no,” Grizel said sweetly. “I’ll help too!” She made no motion to take off her gloves, however, but stood watching with a lazy smile while her companion threw off her furs in business-like fashion. The square emerald sparkled against the whiteness of her hand, as she turned over flowers, searching for the most perfect specimens. Once more Dane watched it with fascinated attention, once more looked from it to Teresa’s hands, reddened and stained with soil, and hastily averted his eyes. Henceforth he kept them averted. There was no disloyalty in admiring a beautiful thing. The wrong began when one stooped to invidious comparisons.

By degrees it came about that Cassandra arranged, while the others stood by, and supplied her wants. She was accustomed to the handling of delicate blooms, and possessed little coaxing tricks of propping and supporting, which added greatly to their effect. Of the first two vases completed, hers was so palpably superior, that the obvious course was to invite her to undertake all five. Teresa gave the invitation with a good grace, and stood aside handing sprays of lilies, and disentangling delicate fronds of green.

As she stood she faced a small mirror on the wall, before which the Rev. Vicar presumably concluded his clerical toilet. At the moment it gave back the reflection of herself and Cassandra, standing side by side, and the contrast stung. At home, by the same law of contrast, Teresa complacently considered herself next door to a beauty, but seen side by side with Cassandra Raynor, her image appeared of a sudden coarsened and blunted. Moreover, the inferiority was not confined to the body; mentally as well as physically she was at a disadvantage;—her words seemed halting and difficult, compared with the other’s delicate ripple of conversation. Teresa’s honesty accepted the fact, disagreeable though it was. The little ache at her heart was not caused so much by jealousy, as by regret for the hour which she had longed for, the hour which was not to be. Surreptitiously she watched Peignton to see if he shared her disappointment. His manner was quieter than when they had been alone together. He looked less at his ease, but he was interested, his eyes followed the delicate work with absorbed attention. He was more interested, rather than less. Teresa felt suddenly very tired. She had hoped he would look disappointed!

Meanwhile Grizel had strolled out of the vestry and stood viewing the scene with lazy, smiling eyes. The workers were so busy that they had not noticed her approach, and she had time to study them unawares. For the most part they worked in pairs, consulting together, the more deft-handed arranging the flowers, the less skilful acting as assistant, and executing her commands. Quietly though they worked, there was in the air a sense of camaraderie; and one divined that these workers were friends who had chosen to work together, and enjoyed the companionship. In the background a solitary black-robed figure stood straining upward from the seat of a pew, engaged in covering the sill of a window with fragments of foliage, and those inferior flowers which had been rejected for more prominent places. Grizel took a short cut through a pew, and approached this worker’s side.

“May I help you?” she asked, and Miss Bruce turned her head and stared in bewilderment. She was a middle-aged spinster, who lived in a small villa, with a small servant-girl, a fox-terrier, and a canary in a brass cage. She possessed exactly two hundred pounds a year, and felt herself rich. It was only in the matter of friends that she was poor, for the taint of trade set her apart from the people whom she wished to know, while as a lady of independent means she, in her turn, despised the class from which she had sprung. Mrs Evans considered Miss Bruce a “useful” worker, and asked her to tea regularly once a year, in addition to a summer garden party. The churchwarden’s wife was asked to meet her on these occasions. “You won’t mind, dear, I know,” the Vicar’s wife would premise. “You are so kind, and it gives her such pleasure, poor soul!” But as a matter of fact the tea party gave Miss Bruce no pleasure at all. She was keen enough to realise the exact conditions of her invitation, and instead of feeling flattered was wounded and aggrieved... “Last week she had nine people there one afternoon, the Mallisons and the Escourts, all that set. Ellen heard about it from the cook. Why couldn’t she ask me then?” she would ask herself bitterly. “Never anyone but Mrs Rose!” Every year she decided to refuse the next invitation, but when it came to the time her courage failed. In the deadly dullness of her life a change was too rare to be lightly foregone. She stepped down from her high perch now, and turned her dull eyes to stare into Grizel Beverley’s happy face.

“May I help you a little?”

“Thank you. It’s very kind, I’m sure. I shall be much obliged.”

“That’s all right!” said Grizel cordially, and promptly seated herself at the end of a pew, and extended an arm along the top of the oaken back, in an attitude of luxurious ease. Exactly what form the “help” was to take it was difficult to guess, but Miss Bruce was not thinking of such mundane considerations; her mind was occupied in grasping the astounding fact that the latest celebrity of the countryside, Mrs Martin Beverley, late Miss Grizel Dundas, had chosen to single out her insignificant self, when some of the most important ladies in the parish were present.

“It’s—not very interesting over here,” she stammered apologetically. “Window-sills are so dull. It’s impossible to get an effect.”

“They are rather muddly, aren’t they?” Grizel agreed cheerfully, casting a roving eye over the branches of greenery, scattered intermittently with daffodils which had had their day. “But I daresay no one will look... I don’t think I know your name, do I? You haven’t called on me yet?”

Miss Bruce flushed a deep brick-red. Her lips tightened in remembrance of the old grudge.

“I—don’t call!” she said bluntly. “It would not be—acceptable. I am poor.”

“Oh, so am I! There we can sympathise. Isn’t it dull?” cried Grizel gaily.

Miss Bruce looked at her in silent disclaimer. No one could look into Grizel’s face and doubt the honesty of her words, but Miss Bruce reflected tartly that there were different degrees of poverty! Why, the clothes on the bride’s back this morning must have cost a considerable portion of her own year’s income! The white coat hung in strange and wonderful folds, the outside was severely plain, just a simple, unadorned cloth garment which an ordinary woman might have worn; but as she sat, the fronts had fallen apart, and the spinster gazed with awe upon a gorgeousness of lining such as it had not entered into her brain to conceive. Ivory brocade, shot through with gold; a band of exquisite embroidery where the two fabrics met, cascades of delicate lace. Miss Bruce was fond of coining phrases to express her meaning. She coined one now, “Muffled magnificence!” It seemed an inconceivable thing that any woman could allow such richness to be hidden away beneath a cloth exterior, yet something latent within her applauded the feat. “Muffled magnificence,” she repeated to herself, her gloating eyes taking in each perfection of detail. Her lips twisted in grim realisation of the difference in degrees of poverty, but a quality of sincerity and kindliness in Grizel’s hazel eyes prompted an unwonted confidence. She heard herself saying quite simply and naturally:

“There is something besides poverty, Mrs Beverley! My father was a plumber. Quite in a big way, of course, but still,—he was in trade. He was a very good father; he educated me well and left me enough to live on. I’m grateful to him, but,—you can understand—”

Grizel gave a soft little move of appreciation.

“A good plumber.—A plumber with principles... Oh, you must be proud! I’ve travelled all over the world, but I never heard of such a thing before. All the other plumbers I’ve heard of have brought misery on everyone who knew them... You must certainly come to see me, and tell me all about him, and I’ll call on you too, and see his photograph... Had he a chin beard?”

Miss Bruce’s gratification was merged in stunned surprise.

“Chin—beard?”

“They always have. Haven’t you noticed? If your father hadn’t, that makes him more wonderful still. And where is your house, Miss—”

“Bruce. In Rose Lane. Near the Men’s Institute. A little house with a green porch. You wouldn’t have noticed—”

“I’ve just come, you see,” Grizel apologised, “and I’ve been busy about my own little house. I’ll show it to you, and you must show me yours. When will you come to tea?”

Miss Bruce stood silent, struggling between a longing to name a date, clinch the invitation, and wave a flag of triumph in the eyes of her enemies, and some softer feeling which forebade taking advantage of the ignorance of a new-comer. She looked down at the young happy face, at the slim young body in its dainty trappings, and a rare impulse of tenderness stirred in her dried heart. People said that Mrs Beverley had been born to a great fortune, had lived in luxury among the highest in the land, but she gave herself fewer airs than many upstarts in semi-detached villas. One good turn deserved another. Miss Bruce rose to unexampled heights of sacrifice.

“It is very kind of you—I appreciate it, but I’d better not! The gentlefolk don’t know me, don’t want to. If they met me sitting in your drawing-room it would be awkward for everybody concerned.”

Grizel elevated expressive eyebrows.

“I choose my own friends. No one has a right to dictate. I’ll drive over for you some day, and carry you off whether you want to or not. You could help me so much! There are thousands of things I want to know about the place, and the workpeople, and where to send, and what to do when things happen—they always are happening in a house, and I’ve a sort of conviction that you could tell me! I’m rather a lazy person, but I get things done. Providence is kind in sending along people to do them for me.”

Such was the magnetism of the dimpling smile that Miss Bruce entirely forgot that this was the person who in the present instance had volunteered to help herself, and stammered ardent promises. Anything she could do! Everything she could do. Only too pleased and proud—

“That’s all right, then. And about those daffodils! Don’t you think they’d look better massed together into little groups? They do look so plaintive fading away all on their own little lones. You’d get more effect from good-sized bunches!”

“Well, I can try!” Miss Bruce conceded amiably, and for the next ten minutes she worked diligently, carrying out the instructions given by a soft voice, and a waving hand in an exquisitely fitting glove. The result was distinctly to the good, and Grizel had no hesitation in taking her due share of praise.

“We have done them well!” she said graciously at parting, and Miss Bruce magnanimously agreed.

“Thank you so much for your help!”

Grizel made another short cut through a pew, and was intercepted by the Vicar’s wife, who had been watching the tête-à-tête with wondering eyes. Mrs Martin Beverley, and poor Miss Bruce! What on earth had they found to talk about all that time? Her keen eyes were alight with curiosity, but Grizel vouchsafed no information; she knew without hearing what the good lady would have to say, and was in no mind to hear it. Perhaps of all sins, pride is the most universal, and the most varied in the manner of its presentment. It hides itself under many disguises, obtrudes its head in the most unexpected situations. The socialist railing at society, and calling upon mankind to follow his example, is often more inflated with pride than the aristocrats against whom he inveighs: an ardent philanthropist living happily among East End roughs, will display unexpected bristles to a fellow-worker who has not known the advantages of a public school; so Grizel Beverley, looking down on the small folk of Chumley from the altitude of her past experiences, failed to grasp Infinitesimal distinctions, and saw no reason why she should be hindered thereby. She had no mind to obey instructions from the Vicar’s wife! She floated past with a nod and a smile, and joined the little group of three who were standing outside the Cancel rails, surveying the effect of the completed vases. The girl Teresa looked paler and more set in expression; tired, no doubt, with her morning’s work. Cassandra, on the contrary, looked refreshed, the interest of having work to do, and doing it well, lighting her eyes into a girlish brightness. Her face was almost as happy as Grizel’s own, as she turned to greet her.

“Here you are! I hope I’ve not kept you too long. It must be nearly time for lunch.” She cast a quick glance at the two by her side, and added tentatively; “I’m going straight back in the car; won’t you both come, too, and let me feed you after your labours? Do! I’d be so pleased.”

Without a flicker of hesitation came Teresa’s refusal.

“Thank you; I couldn’t possibly. I’ve not finished. There is always a cold lunch at the Vicarage. Mrs Evans asks anyone who likes to go. It’s so near.”

“Yes, of course.” Cassandra held out her hand in placid acceptance of the fact, spoke a few words of farewell, and turned to Peignton, taking for granted a like excuse on his part, but he was hesitating, and displaying an obvious wish to accept.

“Is there anything more that I can do to help you, Miss Teresa?—If my work is finished, there’s no need for me to stay. Of course, if there’s anything I can do—”

“No, thank you. Only a few odds and ends. Nothing serious. I can manage quite well,” said Teresa staunchly. Her heart was cramped with pain, but she made no sign. As calmly as a martyr of old, she smiled through the fire, shook hands with each of the three in turn, and accompanied them a few steps down the aisle.

Cassandra walked ahead, her head in the air. “Now why did he do that?” she asked herself uneasily. “I asked them together. I never dreamed he would come alone. Perhaps Bernard was mistaken, and there’s nothing between them, after all. She seemed absolutely detached!” The possibility brought with it a sense of relief, and her thoughts flew ahead to the afternoon. “I’ll take him to my summer-house to tea, and we can talk. There are quite a number of things I want to say...”

It was five o’clock before Teresa Mallison returned home that afternoon, for the “few odd things” stretched out to unexpected length. The day had turned out very differently from what she expected, but there was no anger in her heart against the two who had disturbed her peace. With unusual fairness of mind she realised their unconsciousness, their unwillingness to offend. Things had just happened. No one was to blame. This philosophic attitude did not prevent her from being exceedingly short and snappy with her family for the rest of the evening, or from refusing coldly to partake of the fowl which had been provided for her delectation. To some natures a scapegoat is necessary, and in nine cases out of ten they are conveniently discovered in the home circle.

Chapter Seven.

Stolen Hours.

Driving home in the car Cassandra was conscious of contending emotions which carried her back to nursery days; pleasure, excitement, an underlying gnawing of guilt. So had she felt, stealthily playing in a corner with a toy purloined from a sister’s store, and yet, as she assured herself, there was no need for compunction. She had invited both Teresa and Dane; it was not her fault if the girl chose to refuse; not her fault if the man was ungallant enough to accept. Yet the feeling of guilt persisted. She looked curiously at Peignton to see if he shared her discomfort, but never did a man look more serene and unperturbed. Happy too! The thrill of pleasurable excitement which in her case was a real, though secondary sensation, was, to judge by appearance, all-pervading in his case. His eyes shone, the tired-out look had disappeared; his lips smiled.

“What a good thing a good car is! I used to swear by walking, but the time has come when I find it very agreeable to slip into a cushioned seat, and be whirled where I would go. There’s something mysteriously fatiguing about decorating churches; haven’t you found it so? Perhaps it is the necessity of keeping quiet and forbearing from expressing oneself as one otherwise would, when one is unexpectedly scratched or bruised. In any case, I am tired. And hungry! It is good of you to offer to feed me.”

Cassandra smiled with the comfortable assurance of one who takes perfect meals as a matter of course. There was no consciousness of cold mutton, no fear of a heavy pudding, to mar her enjoyment of an unexpected guest, but having never experienced a housekeeper’s anxiety, she failed to appreciate the relief.

“I hope they will give you something fit to eat!”

“And afterwards... Will you show me your garden?”

“I have no special garden. I do nothing myself. I’m always making up my mind to take over a little corner, but it takes a long time to make up my mind. I don’t want to dig and delve. I enjoy the flowers better when I get them without any trouble. It would be simply an effort to try to find an interest.—Do you believe in troubling to find an interest, when it doesn’t come naturally?”

“Yes,” Dane said simply, and Cassandra stared at him with a feeling of check. She had not expected that quiet “yes”; it carried with it a finality which put an end to argument.

“I have had to do it, you see!” he added. “The thing which did interest me became impossible, so I was obliged to find something else to fill the gap.”

Cassandra lay back against the cushions with an exaggerated sigh of resignation.

“Oh, dear! here we are back at our Second Bests! I hate Second Bests, and makeshifts of every description, and I don’t recognise any obligation to adopt them. If I can gain an interest only at the cost of something it doesn’t interest me to do, how can it be an interest at all? I’m talking nonsense, but it’s your fault... You are so painfully philosophic... Does a land agency really fill the gap left by the old regiment, and its associations?”

“Nothing near it. But it helps. It is several degrees better than nothing.” Peignton spoke resolutely, but his face twitched, and Cassandra was smitten with compunction.

“Ah! I shouldn’t have said it. It was mean of me. When you are so brave...” Her voice sank to a tenderness of which she was unaware, as she asked the next question: “What was it? I never heard more than just that you had a breakdown!”

“Lungs,” he said simply. “I had a cough, and it stuck to me, and I lost weight, but I never dreamt of anything serious. It was a bit of a—jar! I was packed off home to a sanatorium, and came out at the end of six months with a clean bill of health. I’ve been up to be vetted every few months since. The last time it was a new fellow, and he could not spot the weak place, so I’m all right, you see; it has just made me physically a few years older than I really am. Given care, and an outdoor life, I have as good a chance as another man.”

“Oh, of course. So many people... It’s nothing now, compared with what it used to be,” Cassandra assented hurriedly. That was the reason of the subtly appealing look which had puzzled her from her first meeting with this man! He had looked death in the face; had left the mimic playing at arms, to fight a hand-to-hand battle with that grim spectre through weary weeks and months. Such an experience could not fail to leave its mark, however resolutely it might be ignored. She was silent for some minutes, staring dreamily out of the window, while Dane in his turn studied her face, and wondered in masculine innocence why every woman did not wear chinchilla.

“How do you take it when such blows come?” she asked slowly at last. “Do you rage or sulk? I suppose with ordinary human creatures it comes down to one of the two. Only the saints are resigned, and I don’t fancy you—”

“No, indeed. Very far from it!” He laughed, then sobered quickly. “I suppose I,—sulked! I got the credit for taking it uncommonly well, but that was because I was too proud to fuss. Pity hurt. For my own selfish sake it was easier to bluff it out, and pretend to be hopeful. But inside—I went through a pretty fair imitation of hell in those first few weeks!”

In Cassandra’s low croon of sympathy sounded all the warmth of her Irish heart; her eyes were liquid with sympathy.

“And then? Afterwards... How soon did you—”

“Pull myself together? Oh, I dunno! As soon as I—began to pull round, I suppose!” He shrugged his shoulders. “Not much credit in that, was there? I sulked, as you put it, so long as everything seemed over, but when I saw I was going to live on, I was obliged to rouse myself to see what could be done. That’s natural! The more one has lost, the more important it is to make the most of what remains. I couldn’t enjoy my life in the way I intended, but I was determined to enjoy it all the same.”

“And have you?”

“Rather! Look at me now. Having a rattling time. I’ve never enjoyed things more in my life than during the last few weeks.”

“Church decorations included!” Cassandra enquired with malice prepense. She wanted to see if he would look self-conscious at what was meant to be a veiled reference to his connection with Teresa, but he looked at her with the frankest of smiles and said: “Yes; didn’t you?” and it was she, not he, who suffered from embarrassment.

At lunch Bernard was unaffectedly pleased to see the unexpected guest, and throughout its course talked to him persistently on topics which left Cassandra out in the cold. She was evidently accustomed to be thus ignored, for her dreamy eyes showed that her thoughts were far away, and she replied so absently to Dane’s tentative attempts to draw her into the conversation, that he was not encouraged to persevere. She awoke to sudden sharp consciousness, however, when Bernard began making suggestions for the afternoon, taking for granted that his guest was ready to accompany him wherever he should suggest to go. “I’ve been wanting to drive round Boxley for some time. You come along and give me your advice,” he said finally, and again Cassandra knew a revival of youthful days in the tingle of anger, the incredulous load of disappointment, which like a real physical weight pressed upon her heart. It was ridiculous, it was absurd, it was quite ludicrously out of proportion, to feel so torn about so small a thing, but she was torn. It was in her at that moment to blaze into anger, to speak loud protesting words, to push aside her plate and dash from the room. All the different impulses which had torn the girl Cassandra when defrauded of a promised treat of the nursery surged up suddenly in the breast of the woman who sat in silent dignity at the head of her table, smiling her unruffled, society smile.

Bernard, of course—Bernard never took her into consideration; but,—What would Peignton say?

What he said was the easiest, most natural of explanations.

“Thanks very much. Another time I’d be delighted, but this afternoon Lady Cassandra has promised to show me the gardens. Perhaps we could fix a day for next week?”

The Squire knitted his eyebrows, and looked from his guest to his wife, back again from his wife to his guest. Plainly he was concerned, plainly also he was concerned for his guest’s sake, not that of his wife.

“That’s very good of you,” he said slowly, “but er—the whole afternoon? Rather a fag, isn’t it? You could have a walk round after lunch, and we’d start at three.”

“Thanks, but it’s against my principles to divide good things. We’ll do Boxley next week, if you’ll give me the chance.”

The Squire looked at his wife again and smiled, a good-natured smile. He was obviously content that she should be amused, provided that he himself had no trouble in the matter.

“That’s all right, then,” he said. “We’ll leave it at that. Cass will be quite pleased to have someone to talk to. Won’t you, Cass?”

“Very pleased!” said Cassandra gravely. It was beyond her at that moment to make pretence, but the earnestness of her face had the effect of launching her husband on an old grievance.

“It’s your own fault, you know; your own fault! I’m always talking to you about it. She won’t make friends, Peignton! Lived within a couple of miles of Chumley all these years, and hasn’t a single friend. Says there’s no one to know. Rubbish! Don’t tell me... Lots of ’em, if she took the trouble to find out. Too proud, that’s the size of it, and they know it, and it gets ’em on the raw. She’s made herself jolly unpopular, that’s what she’s done. You can’t deny that you have made yourself unpopular!”

“I am quite the most unpopular woman in the neighbourhood,” Cassandra said, with the sideways tilt of the chin which Dane was beginning to recognise. “It’s humiliating, but I can’t see that I am to blame. I bore the Chumley people, and they bore me, and if I’m to be bored at all, I so very much prefer to do it for myself. I don’t complain of being alone.”

“Oh, yes, you do. Not in words, perhaps. There are a jolly lot of ways in which a woman can rub it in,” cried the Squire with a shrewdness at which Cassandra laughed with unruffled good-nature.

“Poor Bernard! Have I rubbed it in? Never mind! Grizel Beverley is going to prove a host in herself, and Captain Peignton is giving me a whole afternoon, and I’ve been at the church for over an hour, decorating, and talking prettily to the other helpers. Things are looking up. Who knows! I may be quite sociable by the end of another year!”

But the Squire refused to be cajoled.

“Lots of ’em!” he repeated pugilistically. “Lots. All those houses, and a woman in each. Don’t tell me! What’s the matter with Mrs Mawson? What’s the matter with Miss Mawle? What’s the matter with the Baxters, or the Gardiners, or Mrs Evans?”

“I like Mrs Evans. I think I almost love the real Mrs Evans,” Cassandra said thoughtfully. “I have always a feeling that if I were in trouble the real Mrs Evans would understand. But one so seldom gets a glimpse of her!”

“Don’t understand what you are talking about. Who else do you get a glimpse of?”

“The Vicar’s wife,” said Cassandra, and rising from the table put an end to the discussion.

After lunch the two men sat together smoking and talking, but before the end of half an hour Peignton grew restless, and cast about in his mind for an excuse to escape. Would Lady Cassandra come for him, or was he supposed to search for Lady Cassandra? In any case the best of the day was passing, and it was folly to waste time indoors. He strolled to the window, caught sight of a woman’s figure among the bushes on the nearer lawn, and lost no time in following. It was Cassandra, as he had surmised, Cassandra in a knitted coat and cap of a soft rose colour which matched the flush on her cheeks; her hands were thrust into her pockets, and she nodded welcome to him with a girlish air. No girl could have looked younger, or fresher, or more free from care, and she felt as free as she looked. The guilty feeling of the morning had disappeared, she had forgotten Teresa Mallison, and her claims, while her husband’s scepticism of the fact that any man should choose to spend an afternoon with her for his own enjoyment, had stirred up latent founts of coquetry. Peignton should enjoy himself! She had not yet forgotten how to charm a man. She would charm him now so that his afternoon in the spring garden should be a time to be remembered. She need not have troubled. Grave or gay, nothing that she could have said or done could possibly have failed to charm Peignton. But of that fact she was, as yet, as ignorant as himself. The south windows of the Court opened on to a stone terrace from which two separate flights of steps gave access to a succession of gardens, sloping down to the wide stretch of park. At the head of each stairway, and against the house in the spaces between the windows stood stone vases filled with the gayest of spring flowers. The fragrance of them filled the air, their colours flared gloriously against the dull grey background, and threw into striking contrast the green severity of the Dutch garden immediately beneath. Here, later on in the year, the beds would exhibit gay specimens of the latest development in carpet gardening, but in the meantime they were bare, and the quaintly cut trees and shrubs had a grim, almost funereal austerity. Lower down came a rose garden, with pergolas leading in four separate avenues to a centre dome. In summer the rose garden was a fairyland of beauty, but its time was not yet. The gardeners were busy pruning and training, cleverly inserting new branches among the old. Peignton noticed that though Cassandra gave the men a pleasant greeting, she did not pause for any of the questioning, the propositions, the consultations as to how and where, which true garden lovers find irresistible under such circumstances. She led the way to the lily beds, the ferneries, the herbaceous borders, and the sunk garden, all slumbering in the promise of beauty to come, last of all to the rockery, already ablaze with the gold of alyssum and the purple of aubretia, the little pockets between the stones filled with every variety of spring bulb: daffodils of yellow, white, and orange, flaring tulips, early hyacinths, and many-coloured anemones.

After the unbroken greenery of the higher terraces, the rockery appeared a riot of colour, as if the very spirit of spring had chosen it for an abode. The air was sweet with fragrance, the sloping banks formed a protection against the breeze; it seemed an ideal position in which to pause and rest.

“Where,” Dane asked tentatively, “does one sit?”

“Wherever one can. On the least bumpy stone within reach,” Cassandra replied. She seated herself in illustration upon a boulder covered with a cushion of shaded moss, and immediately began snipping leaves from a shrub of scented verbena, the which she inhaled with languid enjoyment. “Just avoid stalks, and you are all right. Saxifrages like being sat on; they are even grateful if you stamp upon them with strong boots, so you need feel no scruples.” She held the lemon leaf poised in air, studying his face with curious eyes. “You are rather given to scruples, aren’t you? Your conscience is very active!”

“I’m afraid it is,” Dane said regretfully, as he in his turn selected an impromptu seat. “My people were all Friends, so it’s an inheritance. A Nonconformist conscience has a terrible persistence; there’s no living it down. It’s been a handicap to me many times, obtruding itself when it wasn’t wanted. One doesn’t seem to have much personal connection with one’s conscience. It seems so entirely independent of will, that there’s no kudos attached to having a lively one, or no blame if he’s quiescent. Mine happens to be of the persistent kind, and particularly long-lived. He was a worry to me in the nursery; he’s a worry to-day. I don’t think—” he paused for a moment, as if judicially weighing his words—“I don’t think I’ve ever been able to do wrong with any real satisfaction!”

They looked at each other and laughed, but Cassandra hastily lowered her eyes, affecting to bend over a further bed in search of a new fragrance. In reality she was afraid that her eyes might show the tenderness of her heart. The man’s expression as he looked at her had been so full of goodness and honesty that the hidden impulse had been to stretch out her own hand and touch his, to stroke it, and hold it close, and say such fond words as women will, when their hearts are touched. “You dear thing! You dear thing! what harm have you done? Your conscience may sit at ease!” ... With a fellow-woman one would have carried out the impulse, but convention forbade such sincerities between a man and a woman unconnected by blood. Convention decreed that genuine feeling should be disguised.

“Can’t you?” said Cassandra lightly. “Oh, I can! I sinned gloriously in short frocks, with never a thought of consequences. My chum sister was my partner in wickedness, we planned all our rebellions together, but when it came to the bit, she missed half the fun. I could bury everything in the joy of the moment, and forget there was such a thing as to-morrow... She had no sooner done the deed, than she began to be visited by qualms. I didn’t object as much as I might have done, for if the sin was edible—and it generally was.—there was so much the more left for me. She used to sit and shiver, and say: ‘Cass, you’ll be ill! What will Mother say?’ while I ate up her share.”

“And were you ill?”

“I forget,” said Cassandra, and looked at him with a rebel’s eyes. “But I ate my cake!”

Before he had time to answer, suddenly, impetuously she had sprung to her feet, and darted round a corner of the rockery to shelter behind a clump of shrubs. Peignton followed, alert but mystified, but the explanation came swiftly enough. From the raised path which curved through the park to the entrance of the house came a familiar whirr, and the next moment there sped into sight a large grey car carrying two men on the box, and within the tonneau one large, elderly dame. From the distance it was not possible to distinguish her face, but Cassandra recognised her all the same, and groaned aloud.

“Mrs Freune... from Bagton. What shall I do?”

“They’ll look for you?”

“She’ll make them. They’ll ask the gardeners. They’ll say I’m here.”

“Let’s run away!”

She looked at him and her eyes danced, but the instincts of hospitality put up a fight. “It’s a long drive! Twelve miles. She’ll want tea.”

“Does she stay long?”

“Hours. And talks politics into the bargain.”

“Lloyd George?”

“Yes. And the German Invasion. There’s no avoiding it.”

“But it’s a crime! On an afternoon like this, when the sun is shining... You can’t go...”

“She’s driven twelve miles.”

“Twelve miles in a good car! What’s that? She’ll enjoy her tea all the more for waiting... Couldn’t we—?”

Cassandra came a step nearer, her voice sank to the thrilling note in which of old she had concocted mischief in the schoolroom.

“Listen! ... there’s a summer-house near the north gate. It has a locked cupboard with things for tea. I keep them there for my especial use... If we ran down this path quickly... before she arrives—”

“We could have tea there together? For goodness’ sake, let’s fly!”

“But your conscience? The Nonconformist conscience? Are you sure you could enjoy—?”

“She’s your visitor, not mine. I have no scruples. Only give me the chance!”

“On your head be it!” cried Cassandra, and bending low, darted between the shrubs towards a winding path which led in the opposite direction from the house. Peignton followed with eager steps.

Chapter Eight.

The Skirts of Chance.

Now that Lent was over dinner parties came on with a rush, started, as was only discreet, with a state gathering at the Court, when the county was invited to welcome the bride. The Vicar and his wife were the sole representatives of Chumley proper, but Dane Peignton was in request, as an odd man is bound to be in the countryside.

“It will be deadly dull,” Cassandra had warned her friend, “but it has to be done. Brace up, and go through it bravely, and if you don’t like it you need never try again.”

“I won’t,” Grizel said frankly. “A duty is a duty, and has to be done whether you like it or not, but I choose my pleasures to suit myself. If I’m amused I’ll go,—if I’m not, all the saddles of mutton in the world won’t tempt me. It always amuses me to be with you, my dear, but judging from the specimens I’ve already seen, it’s a very, very heavy county. The women are heavy in the afternoon. I tremble to think of what they must be in the drawing-room after dinner. Could I do anything to jolt them up? Put on a black gown, or do a little skirt dancing, or tell stories? I could tell some awakening stories!”

But Cassandra shook her head and issued her orders.

“You are to wear your wedding dress, and behave yourself like a sweet young bride, and do credit to yourself, and to me, and to your husband’s books! When you go to Rome, do as the Romans do.”

When the night of the dinner arrived the sweet young bride repaired to her husband’s dressing-room en route from the bathroom to her own apartment, and squatted on the floor to watch him shave, with her white gown wrapped around a foam of lacey under-garments, and her white shoes kicked off on to the rug. She looked young, and fresh, and blooming, and brought with her a delicious odour of violets, and it appeared to afford her intense satisfaction to watch Martin lather his chin, and twist it from side to side for the convenience of the safety razor.

“Darling, you do look plain! I love you dreadfully when I see you shave. All that trouble to spare me a beard! ... Don’t cut yourself, like a precious. I do so object to bits of cotton-wool... Doesn’t it feel nice and married to have me sitting here, watching you, in my bare tootsies, and knowing that even the Vicaress herself could not object? She’ll be there to-night, you know. What will she wear?—A black satin, cut in a V, with a pendant of agate, and a cap with an aigrette. Dear thing! I must remember to enquire for the Mothers’ Meeting.”

Martin, his chin violently undulating, murmured a word which was evidently of a warning nature, but Grizel took no notice. Her hands were clasped round her knees, she was smiling, in a soft reflective fashion.

“No,” she said slowly, “no! this first year must be just for ourselves.—I am so thankful that Katrine is away and so happy, for our own sakes, as well as her own. I am thankful there are no other near relatives to trouble about. I don’t want Anyone to come between us this first year, not even—that! A year or two alone together we must have, and then,—we’ll pray for twins!”

Martin’s sureness of hand alone saved him from the necessity of cotton-wool. He turned round, smiling, lathered, twinkling with humour.

“Why be so greedy? Surely one—”

“No, no—two would be twice as nice. You get on so slowly with one at a time.” She bent her head still lower, so that her chin rested upon her knees; her golden eyes stared into space, her shoulders heaved with a regretful sigh. “No,” she said at last, “no! I suppose it would not do. Triplets are vulgar, but oh, Martin, think of it!—three ducks, all in a row, each with its long white tail, and its little ribbons round its wrists, and its little gold sovereign hanging round its neck... The Queen’s Bounty! And oh, Martin, think, think! what an advertisement for your books... It would be in all the papers. ‘Mrs Martin Beverley, wife of the well-known novelist, yesterday became the mother of three daughters. (They must be daughters!) Later enquiries at the house elicited the news that the mother and family were all doing well.’”

“Really, Grizel! really!” cried Martin, protesting. “You make me blush.”

“Oh, well!” Grizel sighed, and rose to her feet in one swift, astonishingly agile movement. “Bear up. There’s no use getting agitated before the time. It might be only twins!”

She strolled out of the room, and seating herself on the chair before her own mirror, gave herself into the hands of the waiting maid.

“Now then, Marie, make me look like a sweet young bride.”

Marie looked complacent. It was easy to obey that order, since her mistress was radiant with beauty and happiness, and there lay waiting on the bed a gown, which looked as if it had been blown straight out of a fairy tale for her adornment. The ordinary white satin was far too dull and substantial to have a place in its concoction. It was a mass of cobweb lace of extraordinary antiquity and frailness, mounted on a lining of silver gauze. The fine folds accentuated the reed-like slimness of Grizel’s figure, the misty indefiniteness of shading suited to a marvel the small face, with its white cheeks and amber eyes, that face which was at once so colourless, and so aglow. Marie looking at the reflection in the mirror, pushed aside the cases of jewels, and lifting a piece of tulle swathed it lightly round her mistress’ head, allowing one long end to flow down the back. It was unconventional, it was daring, but the effect was irresistible, and Marie stood aside heaving a sigh of triumph.

“No jewels. Only the gauze. In effect—a veil!”

So it came to pass that when Mr and Mrs Beverley made their entrance into the great drawing-room of the Court, there came to one and all of the assembled guests the impression of a creature half human, half fairy, poised midway between heaven and earth, aglow with that absolute, unshadowed happiness, which is seldom given to mortals to see or to enjoy. It was indeed the primitive note in Grizel’s temperament, which made such a condition possible. The least introspective of mortals, she accepted happiness as manna from heaven, throve on to-day’s supply, and confidently expected the morrow’s supply. The minor trials, which would have dimmed the rapture of another bride, pricked her for the moment, and were then cast aside, and dismissed from thought, as completely as though they had never existed. There were occasions when such abstraction brought about material contretemps, but of the mental lightening there could be no doubt.

Everyone in the room received the same impression of radiance as the bride entered, but on the different minds the impression acted differently. The Vicar’s wife, clad as had been foretold, in black satin and aigretted cap, but showing a pendant of cameo, instead of agate, on the discreet décolletage, felt a sudden unreasoning disposition towards tears, and the good man, her husband, breathed a mental “God keep her!” but the Hon. Mrs Mawson was distinctly shocked. She was the Evangelical magnate whose religion seemed largely to consist in disapproving of other people’s enjoyments, and the bride’s obtrusive happiness appeared to her as a deliberate “tempting of Providence.” Moreover, she disapproved of the costume as theatrical and unusual. Why not satin, like everybody else? And no jewels! The niece of Lady Griselda Dundas must possess jewels of price. Then why that bare neck? Mrs Mawson was wearing her own rubies, and took it as a personal slight that the bride had come to meet her unadorned.

Midway between the two extremes flowed the general verdict, but Grizel was blissfully unconscious of criticism. She went through the necessary greetings of acquaintances, among whom she was surprised to recognise Teresa Mallison, and then exchanged a few words with her hostess before leading the way to dinner on the Squire’s arm.

Cassandra looked as usual, both tired and vivid; she gave a caressing pressure to her friend’s elbow, and murmured softly:

“Exquisite. About eighteen! ... Talk hard, Grizel, for pity’s sake—talk hard! The atmosphere is freezing. At the last moment Mona Fenchurch sent a wire. Flue. I had to send for Teresa. She’s so good about filling gaps.”

“Oh, well!” Grizel said significantly. Of course Teresa was delighted to come, especially when by good luck it was Peignton’s predestined partner who had fallen out! She stood by his side now—flushed, silent, a trifle gauche, for it was something of an ordeal to meet the people who politely ignored her existence in the life of the neighbourhood. Grizel divined something of the cause of the girl’s embarrassment, and sent her a smile of beaming friendliness. Well! all had turned out for the best. Nobody wanted Mona Fenchurch for the pleasure of her company, and her absence had paved the way to a lovers’ meeting. Captain Peignton looked supremely content, and how sensible of the girl to stick to blue!

Teresa, however, was not at all self-congratulatory on the subject of her gown. If she had had a day’s notice,—even half a day, she could have dashed up to town, and equipped herself in something newer, and more worthy of the occasion. She was miserably conscious that the blue dress was past its freshness, and had already paid several visits to the Court.

The dinner which followed was lengthy and stately. It was also undeniably dull! At one end of the table Grizel chatted and leant her elbows on the table, and kept the Squire in complacent chuckles of laughter, but their gaiety, instead of spreading, seemed to throw into greater contrast the forced conversations of the other guests. With the exception of Teresa Mallison they were all elderly people, who had driven over many miles of country to perform a social duty, and neither expected nor received any pleasure in its execution. They all knew each other, met at intervals, and discoursed together on the same well-worn topics. Lady Rose talked garden, and was an expert on bulbs. Sir George Everley, her partner, described all bulbs vaguely as daffodils, lived simply and solely for “huntin’,” and would in all probability die for it another day. The Vicar’s partner lived for bridge, and his wife had fallen to the share of an old general who looked upon food and drink as the events of the moment, and had no intention of losing a good chance. Long years of dining out had made him an expert at the game of starting his partner on a hobby during an interval between courses, and then giving her her head until the next stop. “Well! and what is the latest good work in the parish, Mrs Evans, eh, what?” he enquired genially, as he waited the advent of fish, and then with the help of a, “Did you though? God bless my soul! Pine work! fine work!” he was left free to enjoy his fare, and make mental notes on the flavouring of the sauce, until such time as he had leisure to give Mrs Evans another lead on the vexed question of the choir.

Lord Kew sat on Cassandra’s left side, and threw depressed crumbs of conversation to his companion, the stout wife of the huntin’ squire. It was said of Lord Kew that he could not talk for five minutes together without bringing in the German invasion, and his conviction that England was galloping headlong to the dogs. He prophesied as much to the squire’s wife in less than the prescribed time, and she said that “something ought to be done,” and seizing on the word “dog” introduced to his notice her two pet Chows. From time to time also Cassandra helped her along with a few words, leaving Martin to make the acquaintance of his right-hand neighbour, who had heard of his books, and really must get them from the library. “Do you write under your own name?”

Teresa sat like a poker, still and silent, vouchsafing monosyllabic replies to the formalities of a county magnate, about whom she knew everything, but who had got it firmly impressed into his sluggish brain that she was someone else, and accordingly insisted upon referring to people and incidents of whom she had never heard. Now and then came a happy moment when Peignton gave her his attention, and smiled encouragement into her eyes, but he was working hard to rouse a chilly lady to animation, and even on occasion throwing an occasional bold challenge across the table, where a couple seemed settling down into permanent silence.

Teresa had the impression that Dane was putting aside his own amusement as something entirely subservient to the general good. It was almost as though he felt a responsibility, and was working for a reward. She never suspected that the reward came more than once in a glance from Cassandra’s eyes, and a smile of appreciation flashed down the length of table. Cassandra’s head and neck rose above the banked-up flowers, her cheeks were flushed, the stars of emeralds on her throat sent out green flames of light, she looked brilliant and beautiful, a fitting chatelaine for the stately old house, but it was not her beauty which appealed to Peignton’s heart; it was the subtle want which mysteriously he felt able to supply. He did not trouble himself to enquire into the nature of this strong mutual sympathy, for he was a practical man accustomed to do the next thing, and not trouble about the future.

To-night Cassandra was a hostess struggling with an unusually depressing set of guests, and he expended himself to help her. Looking up the length of table, Grizel’s face was like a flowering shrub in an avenue of cedars. Peignton looked at her and felt a pang of something like anger. She was content enough! She had everything she wanted. Things were cursedly unfair...

In the drawing-room Grizel as the bride was handed round for five-minute conversations, and being in an amiable mood exerted herself to be all things to all women. She talked “huntin’” and she talked bridge, she asked advice concerning her garden, she listened sweetly to details of May Meetings, and vouchsafed copious and entirely untrue descriptions of an author at home; only with the Vicar’s wife did she allow herself the privilege of being natural, and saying what she really meant.

Mrs Evans was elderly and stout, parochial and intensely proper. Grizel was young and unconventional to an extreme, yet beneath the dissimilarity there existed a sympathy between the two women which both divined, and both failed equally to understand.

Grizel knew that Mrs Evans’s brain viewed her with suspicion, but she was complacently aware that Mrs Evans’s heart was not in sympathy with her brain. Was it not exactly the same in her own case? Mentally she had pronounced the Vicar’s wife a parochial bore, the type of middle-aged orthodox, prudish woman whom her soul abhorred, but, as a matter of fact, she did not abhor her at all, for the eyes of the soul saw down beneath the stiffness and the propriety, and recognised a connecting link.

“If I were in trouble, I’d like to put my head down on her nice broad shoulder, and,—she’d like to have me there!”

“Well!” cried Grizel, sinking down in a soft little swirl of lace and silver by the side of the chair which held the portly black satin form, and resting one little hand on its arm with a gesture of half-caressing intimacy. “Well! Are the Mothers still meeting?”