"What did she want?" Miles asked. "She's always in a stew about something. One of her Pekinese got pip, or what?"

Lady Mary took his arm and turned to walk along the terrace. "I think," she said, and stopped. "Where were you, Miles?"

"I strolled down the village to get some tobacco, and then I saw a chap who'd got his motor stuck, and helped him, and then ..." Here Miles looked down at his aunt, who looked up at him apprehensively. "I caught up with Miss Morton and the children, and walked back to Wren's End with them. There, Aunt Mary, that's a categorical history of my time since tea."

Lady Mary pressed his arm. "Miles, dear, do you think it's quite wise to be seen about so much with little Miss Morton ... wise for her I mean?"

"I hope I'm not the sort of chap it's bad to be seen about with...."

"Of course not, dear Miles, but, you see, her position...."

"What's the matter with her position?"

"Of course I know it's most creditable of her and all that ... but ... when a girl has to go out as a sort of nursery governess, it is different, isn't it, dear? I mean...."

"Yes, Aunt Mary, I'm awfully interested—different from what?"

"From girls who lead the sheltered life, girls who don't work ... girls of our own class."

"I don't know," Miles said thoughtfully, "that I should say Pen, for instance, lives exactly a sheltered life, should you?"

"Pen is married."

"Yes, but before she was married ... eh, Aunt Mary? Be truthful, now."

Miles held his aunt's arm tightly within his, and he stooped and looked into her face.

"And does the fact that Pen is married explain or excuse her deplorable taste in men? Which does it do, Aunt Mary? Speak up, now."

Lady Mary laughed. "I'm not here to defend Pen; I'm here to get your answer as to whether you think it's ... quite fair to make that little Miss Morton conspicuous by running after her and making her the talk of the entire county, for that's what you're doing."

"What good old Pen has been telling you I'm doing, I suppose."

"I had my own doubts about it without any help from Pen ... but she said Alec Pottinger had been talking...."

"Pottinger's an ass."

"He doesn't talk much, anyhow, Miles, and she felt if he said anything...."

"Look here, Aunt Mary, how's a chap to go courting seriously if he doesn't run after a girl?... he can't work it from a distance ... not unless he's one of those poet chaps, and puts letters in hollow trees and so on. And you don't seem to have provided any hollow trees about here."

"Courting ... seriously!" Lady Mary repeated with real horror in her tones. "Oh, Miles, you can't mean that!"

"Surely you'd not prefer I meant the other thing?"

"But, Miles dear, think!"

"I have thought, and I've thought it out."

"You mean you want to marry her?"

Lady Mary spoke in an awed whisper.

"Just exactly that, and I don't care who knows it; but I'm not at all sure she wants to marry me ... that's why I don't want to rush my fences and get turned down. I'm a heavy chap to risk a fall, Aunt Mary."

"Oh, Miles! this is worse than anything Pen even dreamt of."

"What is? If you mean that she probably won't have me—I'm with you."

"Of course she'd jump at you—any girl would.... But a little nursemaid!"

"Come now, Aunt Mary, you know very well she's just as good as I am; better, probably, for she's got no pies nor starch in her pedigree. Her father's a Major and her mother was of quite good family—and she's got lots of rich, stingy relations ... and she doesn't sponge on 'em. What's the matter with her?"

"Please don't do anything in a hurry, dear Miles."

"I shan't, if you and Pen and the blessed 'county,' with its criticism and gossip, don't drive me into it ... but the very first word you either say or repeat to me against Miss Morton, off I go to her and to the old Major.... So now we understand each other, Aunt Mary—eh?"

"There are things you ought to know, Miles."

"You may depend," said Miles grimly, "that anything I ought to know I shall be told ... over and over again ... confound it.... And remember, Aunt Mary, that what I've told you is not in the least private. Tell Pen, tell Mrs. Fream, tell Withells, but just leave me to tell Miss Ross, that's all I beg."

"Miles, I shall tell nobody, for I hope ... I hope——"

"'Hope told a flattering tale,'" said Miles, and kissed his aunt ... but to himself he said: "I've shut their mouths for a day or two anyway."



CHAPTER XXII

THE ENCAMPMENT

It was the morning of the first Monday in June, and Tony had wandered out into the garden all by himself. Monday mornings were very busy, and once Clipture was over Jan and Meg became socially useless to any self-respecting boy.

There was all the washing to sort and divide into two large heaps: what might be sent to Mrs. Chitt in the village, and what might be kept for the ministrations of one Mrs. Mumford, who came every Monday to Wren's End. And this division was never arrived at without a good deal of argument between Jan and Meg.

If Jan had had her way, Mrs. Mumford's heap would have been very small indeed, and would have consisted chiefly of socks and handkerchiefs. If Meg had had hers, nothing at all would have gone to Mrs. Chitt. Usually, too, Hannah was called in as final arbitrator, and she generally sided with Meg. Little Fay took the greatest interest in the whole ceremony, chattered continually, and industriously mixed up the heaps when no one was looking.

At such times Tony was of the opinion that there were far too many women in the world. On this particular morning, too, he felt injured because of something that had happened at breakfast.

It was always a joy to Meg and Jan that whatever poor Fay might have left undone in the matter of disciplining her children, she had at least taught them to eat nicely. Little Fay's management of a spoon was a joy to watch. The dimpled baby hand was so deft, the turn of the plump wrist so sure and purposeful. She never spilled or slopped her food about. Its journey from bowl to little red mouth was calculated and assured. Both children had a horror of anything sticky, and would refuse jam unless it was "well covelled in a sangwidge."

That very morning Jan and Meg exchanged congratulatory glances over their well-behaved charges, sitting side by side.

Then, all at once, with a swift, sure movement, little Fay stretched up and deposited a spoonful of exceedingly hot porridge exactly on the top of her brother's head, with a smart tap.

Tony's hair was always short, and had been cut on Saturday, and the hot mixture ran down into his eyes, which filled him with rage.

He tried to get out of his high chair, exclaiming angrily, "Let me get at her to box her!"

Jan held him down with one hand while she wiped away the offending mess with the other, and all the time Tony cried in crescendo, "Let me get at her!"

Little Fay, quite unmoved, continued to eat her porridge with studied elegance, and in gently reproachful tones remarked, "Tony velly closs littoo boy."

Jan and Meg, who wanted desperately to laugh, tried hard to look shocked, and Meg asked, "What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?"

"Tony's head so shiny and smoove."

Tony rubbed the shiny head ruefully.

"Can't I do nuffin to her?" he demanded.

"No," his sister answered firmly, "loo can't, 'cos I'm plitty littoo Fay."

"Can't I plop some on her head?" he persisted.

"It certainly seems unfair," Jan said thoughtfully, "but I think you'd better not."

"It is unfair," Tony grumbled.

Jan loosed his hands. "Now," she said, "you can do what you like."

Little Fay leaned towards her brother, smiling her irresistible, dimpled, twinkling smile, and held out a spoonful of her porridge.

"Deah littoo Tony," she cooed, "taste it."

And Tony meekly accepted the peace-offering.

"You haven't smacked her," Jan remarked.

Tony sighed. "It's too late now—I don't feel like it any more."

All the same he felt aggrieved as he set out to seek Earley in the kitchen garden.

Earley was not to be found. He saw Mrs. Mumford already hanging kitchen cloths on a line in the orchard, but he felt no desire for Mrs. Mumford's society.

Tony's tormented soul sought for something soothing.

The garden was pleasant, but it wasn't enough.

Ah! he'd got it!

He'd go to the river; all by himself he'd go, and not tell anybody. He'd look over the bridge into that cool deep pool and perhaps that big fat trout would be swimming about. What was it he had heard Captain Middleton say last time he was down at Amber Guiting? "The Mayfly was up."

He had seemed quite delighted about it, therefore it must mean something pleasant.

After all, on a soft, not too sunny morning in early June, with a west wind rustling the leaves in the hedges, the world was not such a bad place; for even if there were rather too many women in it, there were dogs and rivers and country roads where adventurous boys could see life for themselves.

William agreed with Tony in his dislike of Monday mornings. He went and lay on the front door mat so that he was more than ready to accompany anyone who happened to be going out.

By the time they reached the bridge all sense of injury had vanished, and buoyant expectation had taken its place.

Three men were fishing. One was far in the distance, one about three hundred yards up stream, and one Tony recognised as Mr. Dauncey, landlord of "The Full Basket," the square white house standing in its neat garden just on the other side of the bridge. The fourth gentleman, who had forgotten his hat, and was clad in a holland smock, sandals, and no stockings, leaned over luxuriously, with his elbows on the low wall and his bare legs thrust out. He was very still, even trying not to twitch when William licked his bare legs, as he did at intervals just to show he was there on guard.

There had been heavy rain in the night and the water was discoloured. Nobody noticed Tony, and for about an hour nothing happened. Then Mr. Dauncey got a rise. The rigid little figure on the bridge leaned further over as Mr. Dauncey's reel screamed and he followed his cast down stream.

Presently, with a sense of irritation, Tony was aware of footsteps coming over the bridge. He felt that he simply could not bear it just then if anyone leaned over beside him and talked. The footsteps came up behind him and passed; and William, who was lying between Tony's legs and the wall, squeezed as close to him as possible, gave a low growl.

"Hush, William, naughty dog!" Tony whispered crossly.

William hushed, and drooped as he always did when rebuked.

It occurred to Tony to look after this amazing person who could cross a bridge without stopping to look over when a reel was joyfully proclaiming that some fisherman was having luck.

It was a man, and he walked as though he were footsore and tired. There was something dejected and shabby in his appearance, and his clothes looked odd somehow in Amber Guiting. Tony stared after the stranger, and gradually he realised that there was something familiar in the back of the tall figure that walked so slowly and yet seemed trying to walk fast.

The man had a stick and evidently leant upon it as he went. He wore an overcoat and carried nothing in his hand.

Mr. Dauncey's reel chuckled and one of the other anglers ran towards him with a landing-net.

But Tony still stared after the man. Presently, with a deep sigh, he started to follow him.

Just once he turned, in time to see that Mr. Dauncey had landed his trout.

The sun came out from behind the clouds. "The Full Basket," the river, brown and rippled, the bridge, the two men talking eagerly on the bank below, the muddy road growing cream-coloured in patches as it dried, were all photographed upon Tony's mind. When he started to follow the stranger he was out of sight, but now Tony trotted steadily forward and did not look round again.

William was glad. He had been lying in a puddle, and, like little Fay, he preferred "a dly place."

Meanwhile, at Wren's End the washing had taken a long time to count and to divide. There seemed a positively endless number of little smocks and frocks and petticoats and pinafores, and Meg wanted to keep them all for Mrs. Mumford to wash, declaring that she (Meg) could starch and iron them beautifully. This was quite true. She could iron very well, as she did everything she undertook to do. But Jan knew that it tired her dreadfully, that the heat and the wielding of the heavy iron were very bad for her, and after much argument and many insulting remarks from Meg as to Jan's obstinacy and extravagance generally, the things were divided. Meg put on little Fay's hat and swept her out into the garden; whereupon Jan plunged into Mrs. Mumford's heap, removed all the things to be ironed that could not be tackled by Anne Chitt, stuffed them into Mrs. Chitt's basket, fastened it firmly and rang for Anne and Hannah to carry the things away.

She washed her hands and put on her gardening gloves preparatory to going out, humming a gay little snatch of song; and as she ran down the wide staircase she heard the bell ring, and saw the figure of a man standing in the open doorway.

The maids were carrying the linen down the back stairs, and she went across the hall to see what he wanted.

"Well, Jan," he said, and his voice sounded weak and tired. "Here I am at last."

He held out his hand, and as she took it she felt how hot and dry it was.

"Come in, Hugo," she said quietly. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming, and I'd have met you."

The man followed her as she led the way into the cool, fragrant drawing-room. He paused in the doorway and passed his hand across his eyes. "It does bring it all back," he said.

He sat down in a deep chair and leaned his head against the back, closing his eyes. Jan saw that he was thin to emaciation, and that he looked very ill; shabby, too, and broken.

The instinct of the nurse that exists in any woman worth her salt was roused in Jan. All the passionate indignation she had felt against her brother-in-law was merged at the moment in pity and anxiety.

"Hugo," she said gently, "I fear you are ill. Have you had any breakfast?"

"I came by the early train to avoid ordering breakfast; I couldn't have paid for it. I'd only enough for my fare. Jan, I haven't a single rupee left."

He sat forward in the chair with his hands on the arms and closed his eyes again.

Jan looked keenly at the handsome, haggard face. There was no pretence here. The man was gravely ill. His lips (Jan had always mistrusted his well-shaped mouth because it would never really shut) were dry and cracked and discoloured, the cheekbones sharp, and there was that deep hollow at the back of the neck that always betrays the man in ill-health.

She went to him and pressed him back in the chair.

"What do you generally do when you have fever?" she asked.

"Go to bed—if there is a bed; and take quinine and drink hot tea."

"That's what you'd better do now. Where are your things?"

"There's a small bag at the station. They promised to send it up. I couldn't carry it and I had no money to pay a boy. I came the long way round, Jan, not through the village. No one recognised me."

"I'll get you some tea at once, and I have quinine in the house. Will you take some now?"

Hugo laughed. "Your quinine would be of no earthly use to me, but I've already taken it this morning. I've got some here in my pocket. The minute my bag comes I'll go to bed—if you don't mind."

Someone fumbled at the handle of the door, and Tony, followed by William, appeared on the threshold.

Hugo Tancred opened his eyes. "Hullo!" he said. "Do you remember me, young shaver?"

Tony came into the room holding out his hand. "How do you do?" he said solemnly.

Hugo took it and stared at his son with strange glazed eyes. "You look fit enough, anyhow," he said, and dropped the little hand.

"I came as quick as I could," Tony said eagerly to Jan. "But Mr. Dauncey caught a trout, and I had to wait a minute."

"Good heavens!" Hugo exclaimed irritably. "Do you all still think and talk about nothing but fishing?"

"Come," said Jan, holding out her hand to Tony, "and we'll go and see about some breakfast for Daddie."

William, who had been sniffing dubiously at the man in the chair, dashed after them.

As they crossed the hall Tony remarked philosophically: "Daddie's got fever. He'll be very cross, then he'll be very sad, and then he'll want you to give him something, and if you do—p'raps he'll go away."

Jan made no answer.

Tony followed her through the swing door and down the passage to speak to Hannah, who was much moved and excited when she heard Mr. Tancred had arrived. Hannah was full of sympathy for the "poor young widower," and though she could have wished that he had given them notice of his coming, still, she supposed him to be so distracted with grief that he forgot to do anything of the kind. She and Anne Chitt went there and then to make up his bed, while Jan boiled the kettle and got him some breakfast.

While she was doing this Meg and little Fay came round to the back to look for Tony, whom they found making toast.

"Who's tum?" asked little Fay, while Jan rapidly explained the situation to Meg.

"Your Daddie's come."

Little Fay looked rather vague. "What sort of a Daddie?" she asked.

"You take her to see him, Tony, and I'll finish the toast," said Jan, taking the fork out of his hand.

When the children had gone Meg said slowly: "And Mr. Ledgard comes to-morrow?"

"He can't. I must telegraph and put him off for a day or two. Hugo is really ill."

"I shouldn't put him off long, if I were you."

Jan seized the tray: "I'll send a wire now, if you and the children will take it down to the post-office for me."

"Why send it at all?" said Meg. "Let him come."



CHAPTER XXIII

TACTICS

It was a fortnight since Hugo Tancred arrived at Wren's End, and Jan had twice put off Peter's visit.

During the first few days Hugo's temperature remained so high that she grew thoroughly alarmed; and in spite of his protestations that he was "quite used to it," she sent for the doctor. Happily the doctor in his youth had been in the East and was able to reassure her. His opinion, too, had more weight with Hugo on this account, and though he grumbled he consented to do what the doctor advised. And at the end of a week Hugo was able to come downstairs, looking very white and shaky. He lay out in the garden in a deck-chair for most of the day and managed to eat a good many of the nourishing dishes Hannah prepared for him.

It had been a hard time for Jan, as Hugo was not an invalid who excited compassion in those who had to wait upon him. He took everything for granted, was somewhat morose and exacting, and made no attempt to control the extreme irritability that so often accompanies fever.

When the fever left him, however, his tone changed, and the second stage, indicated by Tony as "sad," set in with severity.

His depression was positively overwhelming, and he seemed to think that its public manifestation should arouse in all beholders the most poignant and respectful sympathy.

Poor Jan found it very difficult to behave in a manner at all calculated to satisfy her brother-in-law. She had not, so far, uttered one word of reproach to him, but she would shrink visibly when he tried to discuss his wife, and she could not even pretend to believe in the deep sincerity of a grief that seemed to find such facile solace in expression. The mode of expression, too, in hackneyed, commonplace phrases, set her teeth on edge.

She knew that poor Hugo—she called him "poor Hugo" just then—thought her cold and unsympathetic because she rather discouraged his outpourings; but Fay's death was too lately-lived a tragedy to make it possible for her to talk of it—above all, with him; and after several abortive attempts Hugo gave up all direct endeavour to make her.

"You are terribly Scotch, Jan," he said one day. "I sometimes wonder whether anything could make you really feel."

Jan looked at him with a sort of contemptuous wonder that caused him to redden angrily, but she made no reply.

He was her guest, he was a broken man, and she knew well that they had not yet even approached their real difference.

Two people, however, took Hugo's attitude of profound dejection in the way he expected and liked it to be taken. These were Mr. Withells and Hannah.

Mr. Withells did not bear Jan a grudge because of her momentary lapse from good manners. In less than a week from the unfortunate interview in the nut-walk he had decided that she could not properly have understood him; and that he had, perhaps, sprung upon her too suddenly the high honour he held in store for her.

So back he came in his neat little two-seater car to call at Wren's End as if nothing had happened, and Jan, guiltily conscious that she had been very rude, was only too thankful to accept the olive-branch in the spirit in which it was offered.

He took to coming almost as often as before, and was thoroughly interested and commiserating when he heard that poor Mrs. Tancred's husband had come home from India and been taken ill almost immediately on arrival. He sent some early strawberries grown in barrels in the houses, and with them a note conjuring Jan "on no account to leave them in the sickroom overnight, as the smell of fruit was so deleterious."

Hannah considered Hugo's impenetrable gloom a most proper and husbandly tribute to the departed. She felt that had there been a Mr. Hannah she could not have wished him to show more proper feeling had Providence thought fit to snatch her from his side. So she expressed her admiration in the strongest of soups, the smoothest of custards, and the most succulent of mutton-chops. Gladly would she have commanded Mrs. Earley to slay her fattest cockerels for the nourishment of "yon poor heartbroken young man," but that she remembered (from her experience of Fay's only visit) that no one just home from India will give a thank-you for chickens.

Jan had cause to bless kind Mr. Withells, for directly Hugo was able for it, he came with his largest and most comfortable car, driven by his trustworthy chauffeur, to take the invalid for a run right into Wiltshire. He pressed Jan to go too, but she pleaded "things to see to" at home.

Hugo had seen practically nothing of Meg. She was fully occupied in keeping the children out of their father's way. Little Fay "pooah daddied" him when they happened to meet, and Tony stared at him in the weighing, measuring way Hugo found so trying, but Meg neither looked at him nor did she address any remark whatever to him unless she positively could not help it.

Meg was thoroughly provoked that he should have chosen to turn up just then. She had been most anxious that Peter should come. Firstly, because, being sharply observant, she had come to the conclusion that his visit would be a real pleasure to Jan, and secondly, because she ardently desired to see him herself that she might judge whether he was "at all good enough."

And now her well-loved Jan, instead of looking her best, was growing thin and haggard, losing her colour, and her sweet serenity, and in their place a patient, tired expression in her eyes that went to Meg's heart.

She had hardly seen Jan alone for over a week; for since Hugo came downstairs Meg had taken all her meals with the children in the nursery, while Jan and Hugo had theirs in the rarely-used dining-room. The girls breakfasted together, as Hugo had his in his room, but as the children were always present there was small chance of any confidential conversation.

The first afternoon Mr. Withells took Hugo for a drive, Meg left her children in Earley's care the minute she heard the car depart, and went to look for Jan in the house.

She found her opening all the windows in the dining-room. Meg shut the door and sat on the polished table, lit a cigarette and regarded her own pretty swinging feet with interest.

"How long does Mr. Tancred propose to stay?" she asked.

"How can I tell," Jan answered wearily, as she sat down in one of the deep window-seats. "He has nowhere to go and no money to go with; and, so far, except for a vague allusion to some tea-plantation in Ceylon, he has suggested no plans. Oh, yes! I forgot, there was something about fruit-farming or vine-growing in California, but I fancy considerable capital would be needed for that."

"And how much longer do you intend to keep Mr. Ledgard waiting for his visit?"

"It would be small pleasure for Mr. Ledgard to come here with Hugo, and horrid for Hugo, for he knows perfectly well what Peter ... Mr. Ledgard thinks of him."

"But if friend Hugo knew Mr. Ledgard was coming, might it not have an accelerating effect upon his movements? You could give him his fare—single, mind—to Guernsey. Let him go and stay with his people for a bit."

Jan shook her head. "I can't turn him out, Meg; and I'm not going to let Mr. Ledgard waste his precious leave on an unpleasant visit. If I could give him a good time it would be different; but after all he did for us while we were in Bombay, it would be rank ingratitude to let him in for more worries at home."

"Perhaps he wouldn't consider them worries. Perhaps he'd like to come."

Jan's strained expression relaxed a little and she smiled with her eyes fixed on Meg's neat swinging feet. "He says he would."

"Well, then, take him at his word. We can turn the excellent Withells on to Hugo. Let him instruct Hugo in the importance of daily free gymnastics after one's bath and the necessity for windows being left open at the top 'day and night, but especially at night.' Let's tell that Peter man to come."

Jan shook her head.

"No, I've explained the situation to him and begged him not to consider us any more for the present. We must think of the maids too. You see, Hugo makes a good deal of extra work, and I'm afraid Hannah might turn grumpy if there was yet another man to do for."

Meg thoughtfully blew beautiful rings of smoke, carefully poked a small finger exactly into the centre of each and continued to swing her feet in silence.

Jan leaned her head against the casement and closed her eyes.

Without so much as a rustle Meg descended from the table. She went over to Jan and dropped a light kiss on the top of the thick wavy hair that was so nearly white. Jan opened her tired eyes and smiled.

This quaint person in the green linen frock and big white apron always looked so restfully neat and clean, so capable and strong with that inward shining strength that burns with a steady light. Jan put her arms round Meg and leaned her head against the admirable apron's cool, smooth bib.

"You're here, anyway," she said. "You don't know how I thank God for that."

Meg held her close. "Listen to me," she said. "You're going on quite a wrong tack with that brother-in-law. You are, Jan—I grieve to say it—standing between him and his children—you don't allow him to see his children, especially his adored daughter, nearly enough. Now that he is well enough to take the air with Mr. Withells I propose that we allow him to study his children—and how can he study them if they are never left with him? Let him realise what it would be if he had them with him constantly, and no interfering aunt to keep them in order—do you understand, Jan? Have you tumbled to it? You are losing a perfectly magnificent opportunity."

Jan pushed Meg a little away from her and looked up: "I believe there's a good deal in what you say."

"There's everything in what I say. As long as the man was ill one couldn't, of course, but now we can and will—eh, Jan?"

"Not Tony," Jan said nervously. "Hugo doesn't care much for Tony, and I'm always afraid what he may say or do to the child."

"If you let him have them both occasionally he may discover that Tony has his points."

"They're both perfect darlings," Jan said resentfully. Meg laughed and danced a two-step to the door.

"They're darlings that need a good deal of diplomatic managing, and if they don't get it they'll raise Cain. I'm going to take them down to the post-office directly with my Indian letters. Why not come with us for the walk?"

* * * * *

Hugo quite enjoyed his run with Mr. Withells and Mr. Withells enjoyed being consulted about Hugo's plans. He felt real sympathy for a young man whose health, ruined by one bad station after another, had forced him to give up his career in India. He suggested various ameliorating treatments to Hugo, who received his advice with respectful gratitude, and they arranged to drive again together on Saturday, which was next day but one.

Hugo sought the sofa in the drawing-room for a quiet hour before dinner and lit a cigar. He had hardly realised his pleasantly tired and rather somnolent condition when his daughter entered carrying a large Teddy-bear, two dolls, a toy trumpet and a box containing a wooden tea-set. She dropped several of these articles just inside the door. "Come and help me pick up my sings," she commanded. "I've come to play wis loo, Daddie."

Hugo did not move. He was fond of little Fay; he admired her good looks and her splendid health, but he didn't in the least desire her society just then.

"Poor Daddie's tired," he said in his "saddest" tone. "I think you'd better go and play in the nursery with Tony."

"No," said little Fay, "Tony's not zere; loo mus' play wis me. Or"—she added as a happy alternative—"loo can tell me sumfin instastin."

"Surely," said Hugo, "it's your bed-time?"

"No," little Fay answered, and the letters were never formed that could express the finality of that "no," "Med will fesh me when it's time. I've come to play wis loo. Det up, Daddie; loo can't play p'oply lying zere."

"Oh, yes, I can," Hugo protested eagerly. "You bring all your nice toys one by one and show them to me."

"'At," she remarked with great scorn, "would be a velly stupid game. Det up!"

"Why can't Meg play with you?" Hugo asked irritably. "What's she doing?"

Little Fay stared at her father. She was unaccustomed to be addressed in that tone, and she resented it. Earley and Mr. Burgess were her humble slaves. Captain Middleton did as he was told and became an elephant, a camel, or a polar bear on the shortest notice, moreover he threw himself into the part with real goodwill and enjoyment. The lazy man lying there on the sofa, who showed no flattering pleasure in her society, must be roused to a sense of his shortcomings. She seized the Teddy-bear, swung it round her head and brought it down with a resounding thump on Hugo's chest. "Det up," she said more loudly. "Loo don't seem to know any stolies, so you mus' play wis me."

Hugo swung his legs off the sofa and sat up to recover his breath, which had been knocked out of him by the Teddy-bear.

"You're a very rude little girl," he said crossly. "You'll have to be punished if you do that sort of thing."

"What sort of sing?"

"What you did just now; it's very naughty indeed."

"What nelse?"

Little Fay stood with her head on one side like an inquisitive sparrow. One of the things she had not dropped was the tin trumpet. She raised it to her lips now, and blew a blast that went through Hugo's head like a knife.

He snatched it from her. "You're not to do that," he said. "I can't stand it. Go and pick up those other things and show them to me."

"Loo can see zem from here."

"Not what's in the box," he suggested diplomatically.

"I'm tah'ed too," she said, suddenly sitting down on the floor. "You fesh 'em."

"Will you play with them if I do?"

She shook her head. "Not if loo're closs, and lude and naughty and ... stupid."

Hugo groaned and stalked over to collect the two dolls and the tea-things. He brought them back and put them down on one end of the sofa while he sat down at the other.

"Now," he said, "show me how you play with them."

His cigar had gone out and he struck a match to light it again. Little Fay scrambled to her feet and blew it out before he had touched his cigar with it.

"Adain," she said joyously. "Make anozer light."

He struck another match, but sheltered it with his hand till he'd got his cigar going, his daughter blowing vigorously all the time.

"Now," she said, "you can be a nengine and I'll be the tlain."

Round that drawing-room the unfortunate Hugo ran, encouraged in his efforts by blasts upon the trumpet. The chairs were arranged as carriages, the dolls as passengers, and the box of tea-things was luggage. None of these transformations were suggested by Hugo, but little Fay had played the game so often under Meg's brilliant supervision that she knew all the properties by heart.

At the end of fifteen minutes Hugo was thoroughly exhausted and audibly thanked God when Meg appeared to fetch her charge. But he hadn't finished even then, for little Fay, aided and abetted by Meg, insisted that every single thing should be tidily put back exactly where it was before.

At the door, just as they were on the point of departure, Meg paused. "You must enjoy having her all to yourself for a little while," she said in honeyed, sympathetic tones such as Hugo, certainly, had never heard from her before. "I fear we've been rather selfish about it, but for the future we must not forget that you have the first right to her.... Did you kiss your dear Daddie, my darling?"

* * * * *

Through the shut door Hugo heard his daughter's voice proclaiming in lofty, pitying tones, "Pooah Daddie velly stupid man, he was a velly bad nengine, he did it all long."

"Damn!" said Hugo Tancred.

* * * * *

During dinner that night Jan talked continually about the children. She consulted Hugo as to things in which he took not the smallest interest, such as what primers he considered the best for earliest instruction in reading, and whether he thought the Montessori method advantageous or not.

As they sat over dessert he volunteered the remark that little Fay was rather an exhausting child.

"All children are," Jan answered, "and I've just been thinking that while you are here to help me, it would be such a good chance to give Meg a little holiday. She has not had a day off since I came back from India, and it would be so nice for her to go to Cheltenham for a few days to see Major Morton."

"But surely," Hugo said uneasily, "that's what she's here for, to look after the children. She's very highly paid; you could get a good nurse for half what you pay her."

"I doubt it, and you must remember that, because she loved Fay, she is accepting less than half of what she could earn elsewhere to help me with Fay's children."

"Of course, if you import sentiment into the matter you must pay for it."

"But I fear that's just what I don't do."

"My dear Jan, you must forgive me if I venture to think that both you and your father, and even Fay, were quite absurd about Meg Morton. She's a nice enough little girl, but nothing so very wonderful, and as for her needing a holiday after a couple of months of the very soft job she has with you ... that's sheer nonsense."

There was silence for a minute. Hugo took another chocolate and said, "You know I don't believe in having children all over the place. The nursery is the proper place for them when they're little, and school is the proper place—most certainly the proper place, anyway, for a boy—as soon as ever any school can be found to take him."

"I quite agree with you as to the benefit of a good school," Jan said sweetly. "I am painfully conscious myself of how much I lost in never having had any regular education. Have you thought yet what preparatory school you'd prefer for Tony?"

"Hardly yet. I've not been home long enough, and, as you know, at present, I've no money at all...."

"I shall be most pleased to help with Tony's education, but in that case I should expect to have some voice in the school selected."

"Certainly, certainly," Hugo agreed. "But what I really want to know is what you propose to do to help me to attain a position in which I can educate my children as we both should wish."

"I don't quite see where I come in."

"My dear Jan, that's absurd. You have money—and a few hundreds now will start me again...."

"Start you again in what direction?"

"That's what we've got to thresh out. I've several propositions to lay before you."

"All propositions will have to be submitted to Mr. Davidson."

"That's nonsense. You must remember that I could contest Fay's will if I liked—it was grossly unfair to leave that two thousand pounds away from me."

"She left it to her children, Hugo, and you must remember you spent eight thousand pounds of her money."

"I didn't spend it. Do you think I benefited? The investments were unfortunate, I grant you, but that's not to say I had it."

"Anyway that money is gone."

"And the sooner I set about making some more to replace it the better, but I must have help."

"It takes every penny of my income to run things here."

"Well, you know, Jan, to be quite candid, I think it's rather ridiculous of you to live here. You could let this place easily and for a good rent. In a smaller house you'd be equally comfortable and in easier circumstances. I'm not at all sure I approve of my children being brought up with the false ideas they will inevitably acquire if they continue to live in a big place like this."

"You see, Hugo, it happens to be my house, and I'm fond of it."

"No doubt, but if you make a fetish of the house, if the house stands in the way of your helping your own flesh and blood...."

"I don't think I've ever refused to help my own relations."

"Which means, I suppose, that your sister's husband is nothing to you."

Jan rose. "You are rather unjust, I think," she said quietly. "I must put the children first."

"And suppose you marry——"

"I certainly wouldn't marry any man who would object to my doing all I could for my sister's children."

"You think so now, but wait till a man comes along. You're just getting to the age, Jan, when a woman is most apt to make a fool of herself over a man. And, remember this, I'd much rather my children were brought up simply with my people in Guernsey than that they should grow up with all sorts of false ideas with nothing to back them."

Jan clenched her teeth, and though outwardly she was silent, her soul was repeating, "I will not fear," over and over again.

"Perhaps you are right, Hugo," she said quietly. "You must arrange as you think best; only please remember that you can hardly expect me to contribute to the keeping of the children if I am allowed no voice in their upbringing. Have you consulted your parents as to their living with them in Guernsey? Shall we go out? It's such a beautiful evening."

Hugo followed her into the hall and out into the garden. Involuntarily he looked after her with considerable admiration. She held herself well, that quiet woman. She waited for him in the drive, and as she did so Tony's words came back to her: "I used to feel frightened inside, but I wouldn't let him know it, and then—it was funny—but quite sunnly I wasn't frightened any more. You try it."

* * * * *

Jan had tried it, and, again to quote Tony, "it just happened."



CHAPTER XXIV

"THE WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID"

Peter began to feel annoyed. More and more clearly did he realise that his chief object in coming home was to see Jan again; and here was he, still in London in the third week of June, and never so much as a glimpse of her.

Her last letter, too, had postponed his visit indefinitely, and he almost thought she was not treating him quite fairly. It was, of course, a confounded bore that Hugo Tancred should have turned up just now, but Peter saw no reason for staying away for ever on that account. He knew Wren's End was a good-sized house, and though he appreciated Jan's understanding of the fact that he wouldn't exactly choose to be a fellow-guest with such a thoroughly bad hat as Hugo Tancred, still he considered it was laying too much stress upon the finer shades of feeling to keep him away so long.

His aunt was delighted to have him; London was very pleasant; he had dined out quite a number of times, attended some big parties, seen all the best plays, and bought or ordered all the new clothes he needed, and a good deal that he didn't need at all. He had also bought a motor to take out with him. It was more than time to get within range of the main objective of his leave.

Suggestions that Jan must have shopping to do and might as well come up for a day or two to do it only elicited the reply that she had no money for shopping and that it was most unlikely that she would be in London again for ages.

She hadn't answered his last letter, either, which was another grievance.

Then came a letter with the Amber Guiting post-mark, and in a handwriting he did not know—a funny little, clear, square handwriting with character in every stroke.

He opened it and read:

"DEAR MR. LEDGARD,

"It is just possible you may have heard of me from Mrs. Tancred or Miss Ross, but in case you haven't I will explain that I am nurse to the little Tancreds and that Miss Ross is my dearest friend. I think it would be a very good thing if you came down to see her, for her brother-in-law is here, and I am never quite sure what he might persuade her to do if he put the screw on about the children. There is a comfortable inn called 'The Green Hart,' and there's another called 'The Full Basket,' but I fear you'd not get a room there as it's very small and always chock-full at this time of year with fishing people.

"You see, if you came down to 'The Green Hart,' Jan couldn't say anything, for you've a perfect right to stay there if you choose, and I know it would help her and strengthen her hands to talk things over with you. She has spoken much of your kindness to them all in India.

"Do you fish, I wonder? I'm sure Squire Walcote would be amiable to any friend of Jan's.

"Believe me, yours truly,

"MARGARET MORTON."

Peter put the letter in his pocket and left the rest of his correspondence till after breakfast, and his aunt decided that he really was a most amusing and agreeable companion, and that she must have been mistaken last night in thinking he seemed rather depressed and worried.

After breakfast he went out to send a reply-paid telegram, and then to the garage, where he kept his car. Among other places he drove to "Hardy Brothers" in Pall Mall, where he stayed over an hour.

By the time he got back to Artillery Mansions it was lunch time. More letters awaited him, also a telegram.

During lunch he mentioned casually that he was going down into the country for the week-end to fish. He was going to motor down.

"Yes," in answer to his aunt's inquiry, "I do know people down there, but I'm not going to stay with them. I'm going to the inn—one's freer, you know, and if the sport's good I may stay on a few days."

* * * * *

Mr. Withells came again for Hugo on Saturday morning and proposed a run right over to Cheltenham for a rose show. Hugo declined the rose show, but gratefully accepted the drive. He would potter about the town while Mr. Withells inspected the flowers. The Grange head-gardener had several exhibits, and was to be taken on the front seat.

They started soon after breakfast and would be gone the whole day, for it was an hour and three-quarters run by road and two by train.

"I wish he had offered to take you," Jan said to Meg when the big motor had vanished out of the drive. "It would have been so nice for you to see Major Morton."

"And sit bodkin between Hugo and Mr. Withells or on one of those horrid little folding-seats—no, thank you! When I go to see my poor little papa I shall go by train by myself. I'll choose a day when their dear father can help you with the children."

After lunch Meg began to find fault with Jan's appearance. "I simply won't see you in that old grey skirt a minute longer—go and put on a white frock—a nice white frock. You've got plenty."

"Who is always grumbling about the washing? Besides, I want to garden."

"You can't garden this afternoon. On such a lovely day it's your duty to dress in accordance with it. I'm going to clean up my children, and then we'll all go down to the post-office to buy stamps and show ourselves. You ought to call on Lady Mary—you know you ought. Go and change, and then come and see if I approve of you. You might leave a card at the vicarage, too. I know they're going to the rose show, so you'd be quite safe."

"You're a nuisance, Meg," Jan complained. "Let you and little Fay go swanking down the village if you like, but why can't you leave Tony and me to potter comfortably in our old clothes?"

"I'm tired of your old clothes; I want you to look decent for once. You haven't done anything I asked you for ages. You might as well do this."

Jan sighed. "It seems rather absurd when you yourself say every soul we know will be at the flower show."

"I never said anything of the kind. I said Mrs. Fream was going to the flower show. Hurry up, Jan."

* * * * *

"Well, will I do? Will I satisfy the hedges and ditches, do you think?" Jan asked later, as she appeared in the hall clad in the white raiment Meg had commanded.

Meg turned her round. "Very nice indeed," she said. "I'm glad you put on the expensive one. It's funny why the very plain things cost such a lot. I like the black hat with your white hair. Yes, I consent to take you out; I don't mind owning you for my missus. Children, come and admire Auntie Jan."

Jan dutifully delivered a card at the vicarage, and the nursery party left her to walk up the Manor drive alone. Lady Mary was in, and pleased to see her, but she only stayed a quarter of an hour, because Meg had made her promise to meet them again in the village. They were to have tea in the garden with the children and make it a little festival.

What a funny little thing Meg was, she thought as she strolled down the drive under the splendid beeches. So determined to have her own way in small things, such an incarnation of self-sacrifice in big ones.

A man was standing just outside the great gates in a patch of black shade thrown by a holly-tree in the lodge garden. Jan was long-sighted, and something in the figure and its pose caused her to stop suddenly. He wore the usual grey summer suit and a straw hat. Yet he reminded her of somebody, but him she had always seen in a topee, out of doors.

Of course it was only a resemblance—but what was he waiting there for?

He moved out from the patch of shade and looked up the drive through the open gates. He took off his hat and waved it, and came quickly towards her.

"I couldn't wait any longer," he said. "I won't be the least bit of a nuisance. I've come to fish, and I'm staying at 'The Green Hart'.... And how are you?"

She could never make it out, when she thought it over afterwards, but Jan found herself standing with both her hands in his and her beautiful black parasol tumbled unheeded in the dust.

"I happened to meet the children and Miss Morton, and they asked me to tell you they've gone home. They also invited me to tea."

"So do I," said Jan.

"I should hardly have known Tony," he continued; "he looks capital. And as for little Fay—she's a picture, but she always was."

"Did they know you?"

"Did they know me!"

"Were they awfully pleased?"

"They were ever so jolly; even Tony shouted."

At the lodge they met the Squire. Jan introduced Peter and explained that he had just come down for a few days' fishing and was staying at "The Green Hart." The Squire proffered advice as to the best flies and a warning that he must not hope for much sport. The Amber was a difficult river, very; and variable; and it had been a particularly dry June.

Peter bore up under this depressing intelligence and he and Jan walked on through warm, scented lanes to Wren's End; and Peter looked at Jan a good deal.

Those who happened to be in London during the season of 1914 will remember that it was a period of powder and paint and frankest touching-up of complexions. The young and pretty were blackened and whitened and reddened quite as crudely as the old and ugly. There was no attempt at concealment. The faces of many Mayfair ladies filled Peter with disrespectful astonishment. He had not been home for four years, and then nice girls didn't do that sort of thing—much.

Now one of Jan's best points was her complexion; it was so fair and fresh. The touch of sunburn, too, was becoming, for she didn't freckle.

Peter found himself positively thankful to behold a really clean face; a face, too, that just then positively beamed with warm welcome and frank pleasure.

A clean face; a cool, clean frock; kind, candid eyes and a gentle, sincere voice—yes, they were all there just as he remembered them, just as he had so often dreamt of them. Moreover, he decided there and then that the Georgian ladies knew what they were about when they powdered their hair—white hair, he thought, was extraordinarily becoming to a woman.

"You are looking better than when I was in Bombay. I think your leave must have done you good already," said the kind, friendly voice.

"I need a spell of country air, really to set me up," said Peter.

They had an hilarious tea with the children on the Wren's lawn, and the tamest of the robins hopped about on the step just to show that he didn't care a fig for any of them.

Meg was just going to take the children to bed when Mr. Withells brought Hugo back. It was an awkward moment. Peter knew far too much about Hugo to simulate the smallest cordiality; and Hugo was too well aware of some of the things Peter knew to feel at all comfortable in his presence. But he had no intention of giving way an inch. He took the chair Meg had just vacated and sat down. Mr. Withells, too, sat down for a few minutes, and no sooner had he done so than William dashed out from amongst them, and, returning, was accompanied by Captain Middleton.

"No tea, thank you. Just got down from town, came with a message from my uncle—would Miss Ross's friend care for a rod on the Manor water on Monday? A brother officer who had been coming had failed at the last minute—there was room for four rods, but there wasn't a chance of much sport."

Miles was introduced to Peter and sat down by him. The children rushed at Miles and, ably impeded by William, swarmed over him in riotous welcome, wholly regardless of their nurse's voice which summoned them to bed.

Meg stood waiting.

"Miss Morton's father lives in Cheltenham," Jan said to Mr. Withells, who seemed rather left out. "She's going to see him on Tuesday—to spend the day."

"Then," said Mr. Withells in his clear staccato, "she must take the 9.15—it's much the best train in the day. And the 4.55 back. No other trains are at all suitable. I hope you will be guided by me in this matter, Miss Morton. I've made the journey many times."

So had Meg; but Mr. Withells always irritated her to such an extent that had it been possible, she would have declared her intention to go and return by quite different trains. As it was, she nodded pleasantly and said those were the very trains she had selected.

Miles thrust his head out from among the encompassing three and respectfully implored Mr. Withells' advice about trains to Cricklade, which lay off the Cheltenham route, even going so far as to note the hours of departure and arrival carefully in a little book.

Finally Meg came and disencumbered Miles of the children and bore them away.

When her voice took on a certain tone it was as useless to cope with Meg as with Auntie Jan. They knew this, and like wise children gave in gracefully.

Elaborate farewells had to be said to everybody, and with a final warm embrace for Miles, little Fay called to him "Tum and see me in my baff."

"Captain Middleton will have gone long before you are ready for that," Meg said inhospitably, and trying to look very tall and dignified she walked up the three steps leading to the nursery. But it is almost impossible to look imposing with a lagging child dragging at each hand, and poor Meg felt that her exit was far from effective.

William settled himself comfortably across his master's knees and in two minutes was snoring softly.

Miles manifested so keen an interest in Mr. Withells' exhibits (he had got a second prize and a highly commended) that the kindly little man was quite attracted; and when Miles inquired about trains to Cheltenham he gave him precisely the same advice that he had given Meg.

* * * * * * * *

The station at Amber Guiting is seldom crowded; it's on a shuttle line, and except on market-day there is but little passenger traffic.

Therefore a small young lady with rather conspicuously red hair, a neat grey coat and skirt, a shady grey straw hat trimmed with white clover and green leaves, and a green parasol, was noticeable upon the platform out of all proportion to her size.

The train was waiting. The lady entered an empty third-class carriage, and sitting in the corner with her back to the engine, shut herself in. The train departed punctually, and she took out from her bag a note-book which she studied with frowning concentration.

Ten minutes further down the line the train stops again at Guiting Green, and here the young lady looked out of the window to see whether anyone was travelling that she recognised.

There was. But it was impossible to judge from the young lady's expression whether the recognition gave her pleasure or not.

She drew in her head very quickly, but not before she had been seen.

"Hullo, Miss Morton! Where are you going? May I get in here?"

"Aren't you travelling first?"

"Not a bit of it. Sure you don't mind? How jolly to have met you!"

Miles looked so smiling, so big and well turned out, and pleased with life, that Meg's severe expression relaxed somewhat.

"I suppose," she said, "you're just going to the junction. But why come to Guiting Green?"

"I came to Guiting Green because it's exactly four miles from the Manor House. And I've walked those four miles, Miss Morton, walked 'em for the good of my health. Wish it wasn't so dusty, though—look at my boots! I'm going to Cheltenham. Where are you going?"

"Cheltenham?" Meg repeated suspiciously. "What are you going to do there?"

"I'm going to see about a horse—not a dog this time—I hear that Smith's have got a horse that may suit me; really up to my weight they say it is, so I took the chance of going over while I'm with my uncle—it's a lot nearer than town, you know. But where are you going?"

"I," said Meg, "am going to Cheltenham——"

"To Cheltenham!" Miles exclaimed in rather overdone astonishment. "What an extraordinary coincidence! And what are you going to buy in Cheltenham?"

"I am going to see my father. I thought I had told you he lives there."

"So you did, of course. How stupid of me to forget! Well, it's very jolly we should happen to be going down together, isn't it?"

They looked at one another, and Miles laughed.

"I'm not at all sure that we ought to travel together after we reach the junction, and I don't believe you've got a third-class ticket." Meg looked very prim.

Miles produced his ticket—it was third-class.

"There!" he said triumphantly.

"You would be much more comfortable in a smoker."

"So would you. We'll take a smoker; I've got the sort of cigarette you like."

At the junction they got a smoker, and Miles saw to it that they had it to themselves; he also persuaded the guard to give Meg a square wooden box to put her feet on, because he thought the seats were too high for her.

It seemed a very short journey.

Major Morton was awaiting Meg when they arrived; a little gentleman immaculately neat (it was quite clear whence Meg got her love of detail and finish)—who looked both washed-out and dried-up. He embraced her with considerable solemnity, exclaiming, "God bless you, my dear child! You look better than I expected."

"Papa, dear, here is Captain Middleton, a friend from Amber Guiting. We happened to travel together."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," said the little Major graciously; and somehow Miles contrived in two minutes so to ingratiate himself with Meg's "poor little papa" that they all walked out of the station together as a matter of course.

Then came the question of plans.

Meg had shopping to do, declared she had a list as long as her arm, but was entirely at her father's disposal as to whether she should do it before or after lunch.

Miles boldly suggested she should do it now, at once, while it was still fairly cool, and then she could have all her parcels sent to the station to meet her. He seemed quite eager to get rid of Meg. The little Major agreed that this would be the best course. He would stroll round to his club while Meg was shopping, and meet her when she thought she would have finished. They walked to the promenade and dropped her at Cavendish House. Miles, explaining that he had to go to Smith's to look at a horse, asked for directions from the Major. Their way was the same, and without so much as bidding her farewell, Miles strolled up one of the prettiest promenades in England in company with her father. Meg felt rather dazed.

She prided herself on having reduced shopping to a fine art, but to-day, somehow, she didn't get through as quickly as usual, and there was a number of items on her list still unticked when it was time to meet her father just outside his club at the top of the promenade.

Major Morton was the essence of punctuality. Meg flew to meet him, and found he had waited five minutes. He was not, however, upset, as might have been expected. He took her to his rooms in a quiet terrace behind the promenade and comfortably near his club. The sun-blinds were down outside his sitting-room windows, and the room seemed cool and pleasant.

Then it was that Meg discovered that her father was looking at her in quite a new way. Almost, in fact, as though he had never seen her before.

Was it her short hair? she wondered.

Yet that was not very noticeable under such a shady hat.

Major Morton had vigorously opposed the nursemaid scheme. To the sympathetic ladies who attended the same strictly evangelical church of which he was a pillar, he confided that his only daughter did not care for "a quiet domestic life." It was a grief to him—but, after all, parents are shelved nowadays; every girl wants to "live her own life," and he would be the last man to stand in the way of his child's happiness. The ladies felt very sorry for Major Morton and indignant with the hard-hearted, unfilial Meg. They did not realise that had Meg lived with her father—in rooms—and earned nothing, the Major's delicate digestion might occasionally have suffered, and Meg would undoubtedly have been half-starved.

To-day, however, he was more hopeful about Meg than he had been for a long time. Since the Trent episode he had ceased even to imagine her possible marriage. By her own headstrong folly she had ruined all her chances. "The weariful rich" who had got her the post did not spare him this aspect of her deplorable conduct. To-day, however, there was a rift in these dark clouds of consequence.

Captain Middleton—he only knows how—had persuaded Major Morton to go with him to see the horse, had asked his quite useless advice, and had subtly and insidiously conveyed to the Major, without one single incriminating sentence, a very clear idea as to his own feelings for the Major's daughter.

Major Morton felt cheered.

He had no idea who Miles really was, but he had remarked the gunner tie, and, asking to what part of the Royal Regiment Miles belonged, decided that no mere pauper could be a Horse-Gunner.

He regarded his daughter with new eyes.

She was undoubtedly attractive. He discovered certain resemblances to himself that he had never noticed before.

Then he informed her that he had promised they would both lunch with her agreeable friend at the Queen's Hotel: "He made such a point of it," said Major Morton, "I could hardly refuse; begged us to take pity on his loneliness, and so on—and I'm feeling rather better to-day."

Meg decided that the tide of fate was too strong for her, she must just drift with it.

It was a most pleasant lunch, save for one incident. Lady Penelope Pottinger and her husband, accompanied by Lottie Trent and a man, were lunching at another table.

Lady Penelope's party came in late. Miles and his guests had already arrived at coffee when they appeared.

They had to pass Miles' table, and Lady Penelope stopped; so did her husband. She shook hands with Meg. Miss Trent passed by with her nose in the air.

Miles presented his relations to the Major and they passed on.

The Major was quite pleased and rather flattered. He had no idea that the tall young woman with Lady Penelope had deliberately cut his host. But Meg knew just why she had done it.

After lunch Miles very properly effaced himself, but made a point of asking the Major if he might act as Miss Morton's escort on the journey back to Amber Guiting.

The Major graciously accompanied Meg while she did the rest of her shopping, and in the promenade they met the Pottinger party again.

The 4.55 was crowded. Miles collected Meg's parcels and suggested to the Major that it would be less tiring for his daughter if they returned first-class. Should he change the tickets?

The Major thought it a sensible proposition, especially with all those parcels. Meg would pay Captain Middleton the difference.

Again an amiable porter secured them an empty carriage. The parcels spread themselves luxuriously upon the unoccupied seats. The Major kissed his daughter and gave her his benediction, shaking hands quite warmly with her "pleasant young friend."

The 4.55 runs right up to the junction without a stop. Meg took off her best hat and placed it carefully in the rack. She leaned her bewildered head against the cushions and closed her eyes. She would drift with the tide just a few minutes more, and then——

Miles put a box of groceries for Lady Mary under her feet. She smiled faintly, but did not speak.

Presently she opened her eyes to find him regarding her with that expression she had surprised once or twice before, and never understood.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Only pleasantly. I think I've only travelled first-class about five times in my life before—and then it was with Mr. Ross."

"And now it's with me, and I hope it's the first of many."

"You say very odd things."

"What I mean isn't in the least odd—it's the most natural thing in the world."

"What is?"

"To want to go on travelling with you."

"If you're going to talk nonsense, I shall go to sleep again."

"No, I don't think I can allow you to go to sleep. I want you to wake up and face facts."

"Facts?"

"A fact."

"Facts are sometimes very unpleasant."

"I hope the fact I want you to face isn't exactly that—if it is ... then I'm ... a jolly miserable chap. Miss Morton—Meg—you must see how it is with me—you must know that you're dearer to me than anything on earth. I think your father tumbled to it—and I don't think he minded ... that I should want you for my wife."

"My poor little papa would be relieved to think that anyone could...."

"Could what?"

"Care for me ... in that way."

"Nonsense! But I'm exceedingly glad to have met your father."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to meet him."

"Again, why?"

"Because he's your father."

"Did you observe that Miss Lotty Trent cut you dead at the Queen's to-day?"

"I did notice it, and, like you, I wonder why."

"I can tell you."

"I don't think you'd better bother. Miss Trent's opinion of me really doesn't matter——"

"It was because you were with me."

"But what a silly reason—if it is a reason."

"Captain Middleton, will you answer a question quite truthfully?"

"I'll try."

"What have you heard about me in connection with the Trents?"

"Not much, and that I don't believe."

"But you must believe it, some of it. It may not be so bad—as it might have been—but I put myself entirely in the wrong. I deceived Mrs. Trent and I did a thing no girl in her senses ought to have done."

"Look here, Meg," said Miles, leaning forward. "I don't want to know anything you don't choose to tell me; but since you are on the subject—what did happen between you and that ... and Walter Brooke?"

Meg, too, leant forward; the express swayed and lurched. Their faces were very near; their eyes met and held each other in a long, searching gaze on the one side and an answering look of absolute candour on the other.

"I promised to go away with him, and I went away a few miles, and something came over me that I couldn't go any further, and I broke my promise and ran away. Jan knows it's true, for it was to them I went. But the Trents would never believe it, though Mr. Ross saw Mrs. Trent herself, and told her exactly what had happened. And I daresay ... they are quite justified."

"And how many times have you seen him since?"

"Never till the other day, when he nearly ran over William."

"And how long ago is it since all this happened?"

"Nearly six years."

"Don't you think it's about time you put it all out of your mind?"

"I had put it out of my mind ... till ... you came."

"It didn't make any difference to me."

"I shall never forget that," Meg said, so low that the rattle of the train wholly drowned her remark, but it couldn't conceal her smile.

Miles lost his head. He kneeled down plump on the floor of that compartment and took her in his arms and kissed her.

* * * * * * * *

"All the same, I don't believe I can marry you," she said later.

"Why on earth not?"

"Because I don't think I'm a suitable wife for you."

"Surely I'm the best judge of that."

"No, you're not a judge at all. You think you're in love with me...."

"I'm hanged if I do—I know."

"Because you're sorry for me——"

"On the contrary, I'm sorry for myself. I think you're a hard-hearted ... obstinate ... little...."

Mr. Withells would have been scandalised at the conduct of Miles. He would undoubtedly have described it as both "insanitary and improper."

"Oh, please listen!" Meg gasped. "Perhaps a long time hence ... if you're still of the same mind...."

"Anyway, may I tell people?"

"Not a soul. I won't have my Jan worried just now. I've undertaken those children ... and she's having a bad time with that brother-in-law——"

"I say, Meg, what is it about that chap Tancred? I can't stick him.... Is he a bad egg, or what?"

"He is...."

"Poor Miss Ross! But why does she have him there?"

"Oh, it's a long story—and here we are at the junction, and I'm not going on first to Amber Guiting—so there!"

* * * * *

Jan in the pony-cart was waiting outside when Meg came from the little station. Captain Middleton followed in her train, laden with parcels like a Father Christmas.

He packed her and the parcels in, covered both the ladies with the dust-holland, announced that he had bought a charger, and waited to get into the Manor motor till they had driven out of the station.

They neither of them spoke till they had turned into the road. Then Jan quoted softly: "When I go to see my poor little papa, I shall go by train by myself."



CHAPTER XXV

A DEMONSTRATION IN FORCE

Hugo was dissatisfied. So far, beyond a miserable ten pounds to buy some clothes, he had got no money out of Jan; and he was getting bored.

To be sure, he still had most of the ten pounds, for he had gone and ordered everything in the market-town, where the name of Ross was considered safe as the Bank of England. So he hadn't paid for anything.

Then there was that fellow Ledgard—what did he want hanging about, pretending to fish? He was after Jan and her money, that was his game.

But however clear Peter Ledgard's nefarious intentions might be, Hugo confessed his sister-in-law puzzled him. She wasn't nearly as much afraid of him as he had expected. She was always gentle and courteous, but under the soft exterior he had occasionally felt a rock of determination, that was disconcerting.

He had ceased to harp upon the string of his desolation. Somehow Jan contrived to show him that she didn't believe in it, and yet she never said one word to which he could take exception.

It was awkward that his own people were all of them so unsympathetic about the children. His father and mother declared themselves to be too old to undertake them unless Hugo could pay liberally for their board and for a thoroughly capable nurse. Neither of his sisters would entertain the idea at all; and both wrote pointing out that until Hugo was able to make a home for them himself, he would be most foolish to interfere with the arrangements of a devoted aunt who appeared not only willing but anxious to assume their entire maintenance.

He had told his people that his health forced him to relinquish his work in India. His brothers-in-law, although they had no idea of the real cause, thought there was something fishy about this, and were unsympathetic.

Peter got at the doctor, and the doctor declared sea-air to be the one thing necessary to insure Hugo's complete restoration to health. Jan happened to mention that her brother-in-law's people lived in Guernsey, close to the shore. The doctor said he couldn't do better than go and stay with them, and that the journey wouldn't hurt him a bit.

Still Hugo appeared reluctant to leave Wren's End.

Peter came one day and demanded a business talk with him. It was a most unpleasant conversation. Peter declared on Jan's behalf that she was quite ready to help him to some new start in life, but that if it meant a partnership in any rubber plantation, fruit-farm, or business of any sort whatsoever, the money required must be paid through her lawyer directly into the hands of the planter, farmer, or merchant concerned.

Hugo declared such an offer to be an insult. Peter replied that it was a great deal better than he deserved or could expect; and that he, personally, thought Miss Ross very silly to make it; but she did make it, and attached to its acceptance was a clause to the effect that until he could show he was in a position to maintain his family in comfort, he was to give their aunt an undertaking that he would not interfere with her arrangements for the welfare of the children.

"I see no reason," said Hugo, "why you should interfere between my sister-in-law and me, but, of course, any fool could see what you're after. You want her money, and when you've married her, I suppose my poor children are to be thrown out into the street, and me too far off to see after them."

"Up to now," Peter retorted, "you have shown no particular desire to 'see after' your children. Why are you such a fool, Tancred? Why don't you thankfully accept Miss Ross's generous offer, and try to make a fresh start?"

"It's no business of yours what I do."

"Certainly not, but your sister-in-law's peace and happiness is my business, because I have the greatest admiration, respect and liking for her."

"Les beaux yeux de sa cassette," growled Hugo.

"You are an ass," Peter said wearily. "And you know very little of Miss Ross if you haven't seen by this time ..." Peter stopped.

"Well, go on."

"No," said Peter, "I won't go on, for it's running my horses on a rock. Think it over, that's all. But remember the offer does not remain open indefinitely."

"Well, and if I choose to refuse it and go to law and take my children—what then?"

"No court in England would give you their custody."

"Why not?"

"Because you couldn't show means to support them, and we could produce witnesses to prove that you are not a fit person to have the custody of children."

"We should see about that."

"Well, think it over. It's your affair, you know." And Peter went away, leaving Hugo to curse and bite his nails in impotent rage. Peter really was far from conciliatory.

Jan needed a fright, Hugo decided; that's what she wanted to bring her to heel. And before very long he'd see that she got it. She shouldn't shelter herself for ever behind that supercilious beast, Ledgard. Hugo was quite ready to have been pleasant to Jan and to have met her more than half-way if she was reasonable, but since she had chosen to bring Ledgard into it, she should pay. After all, she was only a woman, and you can always frighten a woman if you go the right way about it. It was damned bad luck that Ledgard should have turned up just now. It was Ledgard he'd got to thank that Fay had made that infamously unjust will by which she left the remnant of her money to her children and not to her husband. Oh yes! he'd a lot to thank Ledgard for. Well, he wouldn't like it when Jan got hurt. Ledgard was odd about women. He couldn't bear to see them worried; he couldn't bear to see Fay worried, interfered then. A blank, blank, blank interfering chap, Ledgard was. What Jan needed was a real good scare.

They suggested Guernsey. Well, he'd go to Guernsey, and he wouldn't go alone. Hugo thoroughly enjoyed a plot. The twilight world that had been so difficult and perplexing to poor Fay had for him a sort of exciting charm. Wren's End had become dreadfully dull. For the first week or two, while he felt so ill, it had been restful. Now its regular hours and ordered tranquillity were getting on his nerves. All those portraits of his wife, too, worried him. He could go into no room where the lovely face, with youth's wistful wonder as to what life held, did not confront him with a reminder that the wife he had left to die in Bombay did not look in the least like that.

There were few things in his life save miscalculation that he regretted. But he did feel uncomfortable when he remembered Fay—so trustful always, so ready to help him in any difficulty. People liked her; even women liked her in spite of her good looks, and Hugo had found the world a hard, unfriendly place since her death.

The whole thing was getting on his nerves. It was time to shuffle the cards and have a new deal.

He packed his suit-case which had been so empty when he arrived, and waited for a day when Peter had taken Jan, Meg and the children for a motor run to a neighbouring town. He took care to see that Earley was duly busy in the kitchen garden, and the maids safely at the back of the house. Then he carried it to the lodge gate himself and waited for a passing tradesman's cart. Fortune favoured him; the butcher came up with (had Hugo known it) veal cutlets for Hugo's own dinner. Hugo tipped the butcher and asked him to leave the suit-case at the station to be sent on as carted luggage to its address.

Next morning he learned that Tony was to go with Earley to fetch extra cream from Mr. Burgess' farm.

It was unfortunate that he couldn't get any of Tony's clothes without causing comment. He had tried the day before, but beyond a jersey and two little vests (which happened to be little Fay's), he had been unable to find anything. Well, Jan would be glad enough to send Tony's clothes when he let her know where they were to be sent. Tony had changed a good deal from the silent, solemn child he had disliked in India. He was franker and more talkative. Sometimes Hugo felt that the child wasn't such a bad little chap, after all. But the very evident understanding between Jan and Tony filled Hugo with a dull sort of jealousy. He had never tried to win the child, but nevertheless he resented the fact that Tony's attitude to Jan and Meg was one of perfect trust and friendliness. He never looked at them with the strange judging, weighing look that Hugo hated so heartily.

He strolled into the drive and waited. Meg and Jan were busy in the day-nursery, making the little garments that were outgrown so fast. Little Fay was playing on the Wren's lawn and singing to herself:

The fox went out one moonlight night, And he played to the moon to give him light, For he had a long way to tlot that night Before he could leach his den-oh.

Hugo listened for a minute. What a clear voice the child had. He would like to have taken little Fay, but already he stood in wholesome awe of his daughter. She could use her thoroughly sound lungs for other purposes than song, and she hadn't the smallest scruple about drawing universal attention to any grievance. Now Tony would never make a scene. Hugo recognised and admired that quality in his queer little son. He did not know that Tony already ruled his little life by a categorical imperative of things a sahib must not do.

At the drive gate he met Earley carrying the can of cream, with Tony trotting by his side.

"I'm going into the village, Tony, and Auntie Jan says you may as well come with me for company. Will you come?"

Tony looked dubious. Still, he remembered that Auntie Jan had said he must try and be kind to poor Daddie, who had been so ill and was so sad.

"All right," he said with a little sigh, and took the hand Hugo held out.

"He'll be quite safe with me, Earley," Hugo said with a pleasant smile. "Miss Ross knows I'm going to take him."

Nevertheless Earley went to the back door and asked Hannah to inform her mistress that "Mr. Tancred had taken Mazter Tony along of 'im."

Hannah was busy, and serene in her conception of Hugo as the sorrowing widower, did not think the fact that Tony had gone for a walk with his own father was worth a journey to the day-nursery.

"How would you like a ride down to the junction?" Hugo said. "I believe we could just catch a train if we take the omnibus at 'The Green Hart.' I want to make inquiries about something for Auntie Jan."

Tony loved trains; he had only been twice to the junction since he came to Wren's End; it was a fascinating place. Daddie seemed in an agreeable mood this morning. Auntie Jan would be pleased that he should be nice to him.

It all fell out as if the fates had arranged things for Hugo. They saw very few people in the village; only one old woman accompanied them in the bus; he heard his father ask for a ticket to the junction, and they arrived without incident of any kind.

The junction, however, was busy. There were quite a lot of people, and when Hugo went to the ticket-office he had to stand in a queue of others while Tony waited outside the long row.

Suddenly Tony began to wonder why his father should go to the ticket-office at all to inquire for a parcel. Tony was observant, and just because everything was so different from things in India small incidents were impressed upon his mind. If his father was going on anywhere else, he wasn't going; for Peter had promised to take them out in his car again that afternoon. When Hugo reached the window of the ticket-office Tony heard something about Paddington.

That decided him. Nothing would induce him to go to Paddington.

He pushed his way among the crowd and ran for dear life up the stairs, and over the bridge to the other platform where the train for Amber Guiting was still waiting, lonely and deserted. He knew that train. It went up and down all day, for Amber Guiting was the terminus. No one was on the platform as he ran along. With the sure instinct of the hunted he passed the carriages with their shut doors. Right at the end was a van with empty milk-cans. He had seen a porter putting them in the moment the train stopped. Tony darted into the van and crouched down between the milk-cans and the wall. He thought of getting into one of them. The story of Morgiana and the Forty Thieves was clear in his mind, for Meg had told it to them the night before. But the cans were so high and narrow he decided that it was impossible. Someone slammed the door of the van. There came a bump and a jar, and the train moved out onto a siding till it should go back to Amber Guiting when the 1.30 from London came in. Tony sat quite still in the dark, stuffy van. His little heart was beating with hammer strokes against his ribs, but his face expressed nothing but scorn.

Again his father had lied to him. Again he had said he was going to do one thing when he fully intended to do another. The pleasantness, the kindliness, the apparent desire for Tony's society were a cheat. Tony spoke rapidly to himself in Hindustani, and by the time he had finished expressing his views Hugo Tancred hadn't a shred of character left.

He didn't know when the train would go back to Amber Guiting. It might not be till evening. Tony could wait. Some time it would go back, and once in that dear, safe place all would be well.

He disliked the sound of Paddington; it had to do with London, he knew. He didn't mind London, but he wasn't going there with his father, and no Meg and no Jan and no little Fay and no kind sahibs who were real sahibs.

He was very hungry, and his eyes grew a bit misty as he thought of little Fay consuming scones and milk at the "elevens" Meg was always so careful they should have.

A new and troubling thought perturbed him. Did Auntie Jan know he had gone at all? Would she be frightened? Would she get that look on her dear face that he couldn't bear to see? That Auntie Jan loved them both with her whole heart was now one of the fixed stars in Tony's firmament of beliefs. He began to think that perhaps it would be better for Auntie Jan to give his father some of her twinkly things and let him go away and leave them in peace; but he dismissed that thought as cowardly and unworthy of a sahib.

Oh, dear! it was very long sitting in the dark, scrunched up behind those cans. He must tell himself stories to pass the time; and he started to relate the interminable legend of Cocky-locky and Henny-Penny who by their superior subtlety evaded the snares set for them by Toddy-Loddy the fox. He felt a sort of kinship with those harried fowls. Gradually the constant repetition of the various other birds involved, "Juckie-Puckie, Goosie-Loosie, Turkey-lurkey and Swannie-Lonnie," had a soothing effect, and Tony fell asleep.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Hugo had hunted through every corner of the four platforms; he had even gone to look for the Amber Guiting train, but was told it always was moved on to a siding directly it had discharged its passengers.

It was mysterious, it was profoundly annoying, but it was not, to Hugo, alarming. He suspected that Peter Ledgard was in some way mixed up in it; that he, himself, had been shadowed and that Peter had stolen Tony in the crowd. In his mistrustful wrath he endowed Peter with such abnormal foresight and acumen as he certainly did not possess.

It really was an impossible situation. Hugo could not go about asking porters and people for a lost child, or the neighbourhood would be roused. He couldn't go back to Wren's End without Tony, or there would be the devil to pay. He even got a porter to look in every carriage of the side-tracked train for a mythical despatch-case, and accompanied him in his search. Naturally they didn't seek a despatch-case in the van.

He had lost his train, but there was another, very slow, about three-quarters of an hour later, and this he decided to take. He would telegraph to Jan from London. Somehow he was not in the least concerned about the fate of Tony. Peter and Peter's car had something to do with this mysterious disappearance. He was sure of that.

Well, if this particular deal had failed, he must shuffle the cards and deal again. In any case Jan should see that where his children were concerned he was not to be trifled with.

He was sorry, though, he had bought the half-ticket for Tony, and to ask them to take it back might cause comment.

As the slow train steamed out from the junction Hugo felt a very ill-used man.

* * * * *

At eleven o'clock Anne Chitt brought in the tray with two cups of milk and a plate of Hannah's excellent scones.

"Please go into the kitchen garden and ask Master Tony to come for his lunch," Jan said.

Presently Anne returned. "Master Tony ain't in the garden, miss; and 'Annah says as 'e most likely ain't back yet, miss."

"Back! Back from where?"

"Please, miss, 'Annah says as 'is pa've took him with him down the village."

Jan laid her sewing on the table and got up.

"Is Earley in the garden?"

"Yes, miss. I ast Earley an' 'e says the same as 'Annah. Mr. Tancred 'ave took Master Tony with 'im."

Anne went away, and Jan and Meg, who had stopped her machining to listen, stared at each other across the table.

"I suppose they'll be back directly," Jan said uneasily. "I'll go and ask Earley when Hugo took Tony."

"He got up to breakfast to-day for the first time," Meg remarked irrelevantly.

Jan went out into the Wrens' garden and through Anthony's gate. She fumbled at the catch, for her hands trembled.

Earley was picking peas.

"What time did Mr. Tancred take Master Tony?" she asked.

"Just as we got back from fetchin' the cream, miss. I should say as it was about 'alf-past nine. He did meet us at the lodge, and took the young gentleman with 'im for company—'e said so."

"Thank you, Earley," Jan said quietly.

Earley looked at her and over his broad, good-natured face there passed a shade of misgiving. "I did tell Hannah to let you know the minute I cum in, miss."

"Thank you," Jan said again; "that's quite right."

"Be you feelin' the 'eat, miss?" Earley asked anxiously. "I don't think as you ought to be out without an 'at."

"No, I expect not. I'll go and get one."

By lunch time there was still no sign of Hugo and Tony; and Jan was certainly as much scared as even Hugo could have wished.

Meg had been down to the village and discovered that Hugo and Tony had gone by bus to the junction in time for the 10.23.

Peter was playing golf with Squire Walcote on a little course he had made in some of his fields. It was impossible to go and hunt for Peter without giving away the whole situation, and Jan was loth to do that.

She and Meg stared at one another in dismayed impotence.

Jan ordered the pony-carriage; she would drive to the junction, leaving a note for Peter at "The Green Hart," but it was only too likely he would lunch with the Walcotes.

"You must eat something," said Meg. "There's a train in at a quarter to two; you'd better meet that before you go to the junction; the guard might be able to tell you something."

At lunch little Fay wept because there was no Tony.



CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH SEVERAL PEOPLE SPEAK THEIR MINDS

"After all, you know," Meg said, with intent to comfort, "no great harm can happen to Tony. Hugo will only take the child a little way off, to see what he can get out of you."

"It's the moral harm to Tony that I mind," Jan answered sadly. "He was getting so happy and trustful, so much more like other children. I know his father has got him to go away by some ruse, and he will be miserable and embittered because he has been cheated again."

"Shall you drive to the junction if you hear nothing at the station?"

"Yes, I think so, though I've little hope of learning anything there. You see, people come there from three directions. They couldn't possibly notice everybody as they do at a little station like this."

"Wait," said Meg, "don't go to the junction. Have you forgotten Mr. Ledgard was to fetch us all at half-past two? He'll run you over in his car in a quarter the time you'd take to go with Placid, and be some use as well. You'd better come straight back here if you get no news, and I'll keep him till you get back if he turns up first."

By this time the pony-cart was at the door. Meg helped Jan in, kissed her, and whispered, "Cheer up; I feel somehow you'll hear something," and Jan drove off. She found a boy to hold the pony when she reached the station, and went in. The old porter was waiting for the train, and she asked if he happened to notice her little nephew that morning.

"Yes, miss, I did see 'un along with a holder gentleman unbeknownst to me."

Jan walked up and down in an agony of doubt and apprehension.

The train came in. There were but few passengers, and among them was Miles, come down again for the week-end.

He greeted Jan with effusion. Had she come to meet anyone, or was it a parcel?

To his astonishment Miss Ross broke from him and rushed at the guard right up at the far end of the train.

The guard evidently disclaimed all knowledge of the parcel, for Miles saw him shaking his head vigorously.

"Any other luggage, sir?" asked the old porter, lifting out Miles' suit-case.

"Yes, a box of rods in the van."

The old porter went to the end of the train near where Jan had been to the guard three minutes before.

He opened the van door and nearly tumbled backward in astonishment, for right in the doorway, blinking at the light, stood "Miss Rass' young gen'leman."

"Well, I am blessed!" exclaimed the porter, and lifted him out.

Tony was dreadfully dirty. The heat, the dust, the tears he had shed when he woke up with the putting in of luggage at the junction and couldn't understand what had happened to him, all combined to make him about the most miserable-looking and disreputable small boy you could imagine. He had left his hat behind the milk-cans.

Jan had gone out of the station. She had passed Miles blindly, and her face caused that young man to whistle softly, just once. Then he dashed after her.

"Your haunt bin askin' for you," the old porter said to Tony. "'Peared to me she was a bit worried-like."

Tony moved stiffly down the little station, the old porter following with Miles' luggage on a truck.

The ticket-collector stood in the doorway. Tony, of course, had none. "Don't you say nothin'," whispered the old porter. "'Is haunt'll make it good; there's some sort of a misteree."

Tony felt queer and giddy. Jan, already in her little pony-trap, had started to drive away. Miles, waiting for his baggage beside his uncle's car, saw the dejected little figure appear in the station entrance.

He let fly a real barrack-square bellow after Jan, and she pulled up.

She looked back and saw the reason for Captain Middleton's amazing roar.

She swung the indignant Placid round, and in two minutes she was out of the pony-trap and had Tony in her strong arms.

Miles tipped the porter and drove off. He, too, realised that there was some sort of a "misteree," something painful and unpleasant for Miss Ross, and that she would probably prefer that no questions were asked.

Whatever mischief could that young Tony have been after? And dared Miles call at Wren's End that evening, in the hope of a glimpse of Meg, or would it look inquisitive and ill-bred?

Placid turned a mild, inquiring head to discover the reason for this new delay.

When Jan, after paying Tony's fare back from the junction, had driven away, the old porter, the ticket-collector, and the station-master sat in conclave on the situation. And their unanimous conclusion was summed up by the old porter: "Byes be a mishtiful set of young varmints, an' it warn't no job for a lone 'ooman to 'ave to bring 'em up."

The lone woman in question held her reins in one hand and her other arm very tightly round the dirty little boy on the seat beside her.

As they drove through the village neither of them spoke, but when they reached the Wren's End Road, Tony burst into tears.

"I am so hungry," he wailed, "and I feel so nasty in my inside."

* * * * *

As Meg was putting him to bed that night she inquired if he had done anything with his green jersey, for she couldn't find it.

"No," Tony answered. "I haven't had it for a long time—it's been too warm."

"It's very odd," said Meg. "It has disappeared, and so have two vests of little Fay's that I put in the nursery ottoman to mend. Where can they be? I hate to lose things; it seems so untidy."

"I 'spect," said Tony, thoughtfully, "my Daddie took them. He'd never leave without takin somefin."

* * * * *

There was a dinner-party at the Manor House. Peter had come down from town for it, and this time he was staying at Wren's End. Lady Penelope and her husband were to dine and sleep at the Manor, likewise Miles, who had come down with Peter; and Lady Pen contrived thoroughly to upset her aunt before dinner, by relating how she had met Miles with Miss Morton and her father in Cheltenham. And poor Lady Mary had been hoping that the unfortunate affair would die a natural death. She had asked the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood for Miles to take in, and now, looking down the table at him, she would have said he was as well-pleased with his neighbour as any young man could be. The Freams were there and Mr. Withells, the pretty girl's mamma and a bride and bridegroom—fourteen in all. A dangerous number to ask, the Squire had declared; one might so easily have fallen through. No one did, however, and Peter found himself allotted to Lady Penelope, while Jan's fate was the bridegroom. "His wife won't be jealous of Miss Ross, you know," Lady Mary had said while arranging her couples.

It happened that Peter sat opposite to Jan, and he surveyed her across the sweet-peas with considerable satisfaction. He had never seen Jan in what her niece bluntly called "a nekked dless" before. To-night she wore black, in some soft, filmy stuff from which her fine arms and shoulders and beautiful neck stood out in challenging whiteness. Her hair, too, had "pretty twinkly things" in it, and she wore a long chain of small but well-matched pearls, her father's last gift to her. Yes, Jan was undoubtedly distinguished, and oh, thank heaven! she had a clean face.

Beautiful Lady Pen was painted to the eyes, and her maid was not quite skilful in blending her complexion rightly with her vivid hair; beautiful hair it was, with a large ripple that was most attractive, but Mr. Withells, sitting on the other side of Lady Pen, decided that he didn't approve of her. She was flamboyant and daring of speech. She made him nervous. He felt sincerely sorry for Pottinger.

Peter found Lady Pen very amusing, and perhaps she rather neglected her other neighbour.

The dinner was excellent and long; and after it the ladies, when they left the men to smoke, strolled about on the terrace, and Jan found herself side by side with Lady Penelope.

"How's your little friend?" she asked abruptly. "I suppose you know my cousin's playin' round?"

Jan was a little taller than Lady Pen, and turned her head slowly to look at her: "I'm afraid I don't quite understand," she said.

"Surely," Lady Pen retorted, "you must have seen."

"If you mean that Captain Middleton admires Miss Morton, I believe he does. But you see, to say that anyone is 'playing round' rather reflects on me, because she is in my charge."

"I should say you've got a pretty good handful," Lady Pen said sympathetically.

"I don't think you quite understand Miss Morton. I've known her, as it happens, known her well, for close upon nine years."

"And you think well of her?"

"It would be difficult to express how well."

"You're a good friend, Miss Ross. I had occasion to think so once before—now I'm pretty sure of it. What's the sayin'—'Time tryeth thingummy'?"

"Troth?" Jan suggested.

"That's it. 'Time tryeth troth.' I never was any good at quotations and things. But now, look here, I'd like to ask you somethin' rather particular ..." Lady Pen took Jan's arm and propelled her gently down a side-walk out of earshot of the others. "Suppose you knew folks—and they weren't exactly friends, but pleasant, you know, and all that, and you were aware that they went about sayin' things about a third person who also wasn't exactly a friend, but ... well, likeable; and you believed that what the first lot said gave a wrong impression ... in short, was very damaging—none of it any business of yours, mind—would you feel called upon to do anything?"

The two tall women stopped and faced one another.

The moon shone full on Lady Pen's beautiful painted face, and Jan saw, for the first time, that the eyes under the delicately darkened eyebrows were curiously like Miles'.

"It's always tiresome to interfere in other people's business," said Jan, "but it's not quite fair, is it, not to stand up for people if you believe an accusation to be untrue—whether you like them or not. You see, it may be such a serious thing for the person implicated."

"I believe you're right," said Lady Pen, "but oh, lord! what a worry it will be."

Lady Mary called to them to come, for the bride was going to sing.

The bride's singing was not particularly pleasing, and she was followed by Miles, who performed "Drake's Drum," to his aunt's rather uncertain accompaniment, in a voice that shook the walls. Poor Mr. Withells fled out by the window, and sat on the step on his carefully-folded handkerchief, but even so the cold stones penetrated, and he came in again.

And after "Drake's Drum" it was time to go home.

Jan and Peter walked back through the scented night, Peter carrying her slippers in a silk bag, for the sternly economical Meg wouldn't hear of wasting good suede slippers at 22s. 6d. a pair by walking half a mile in them, no matter how dry it was.