She paused, but Barry, fascinated by this revelation of a depth, almost a poetry, in the nature he had thought shallow and commonplace, said nothing; and after a second she continued.

"There was a steep hill behind our little house, and sometimes the sheep that browsed there would stray ... so that the boy would sit and pipe to them to come back. I used to watch him pipe, and make a garland of vine-leaves and put it on his curls, and my father would laugh and call him Pan, and say he was really thousands of years old ... and the sheep would come up the slope looking so white against the green, and the air would be full of the smell of the violets they crushed beneath their feet...."

Again she paused, and this time Barry prompted her.

"And when he had found his flock, what did your boy-Pan do then?"

"Then he would drive them away over the hill-side, and we would hear his pipe growing fainter and fainter in the distance, until it died away altogether...."

She sprang up suddenly.

"Oh, Mr. Raymond, what nonsense I'm talking! That life's over and done with, and I've all these letters to copy!"

"All right—I won't interrupt!" He took up some papers. "But just tell me this. Do you ever want to go back to Italy?"

She hesitated, considering.

"No, I think not," she said at last. "You see, it would all be different. My father wouldn't be there, nor the Padre—and even old Fiammetta may be dead by now."

"But the place would be the same—the sea as blue!"

"Ah, I should like to see the sea!" She spoke softly. "Do you know I've only seen the sea once since I came to England—when we went to Southend for the day. And there it was all cold and grey—and the sands were mud ... it wasn't a bit like my sea, and I wished I'd never seen it."

There were actually tears in her eyes, and Barry cursed himself for a fool, as he went rather absently into his own room, leaving her to her work—which work was done none the less carefully because of the vague longings which the conversation had aroused in the worker's breast.

Punctually at two-thirty Owen returned, and Toni ran down the steps with a smiling face from which all traces of tears had long since vanished.

The car was waiting in the dingy street, and Toni's foot was actually on the step when she turned and looked at Owen with a kind of desperate appeal in her eyes.

"Mr. Rose, do you drive the car yourself?"

"Yes. I sit in front, you know—ah, would you like to sit with me?"

"May I?" Her accent was acceptance enough; and two minutes later Toni, as happy as a queen, was installed by the driver's side, and the car began to glide faster and faster down the street on its way to the open country beyond the town.

When they had gone a little distance Owen turned to look at his passenger, and for a second his heart stood still at the expression on her face. Surely no girl would look so rapturously happy unless some magic were at work....

"Are you warm enough? There's a big coat in the car." He spoke abruptly, but the girl shook her head gratefully.

"No, I'm quite warm, thank you."

She had tied on her soft little hat with a scarf of some thin material which framed her face very satisfactorily, and Owen did not press the question.

On and on sped the car, through Putney and Richmond, on past Feltham and Staines, eating up the miles so fast that before they knew it they were out in the country, flying along the level road between hedges whose green had not as yet become dusty with the summer's traffic.

It was a glorious afternoon in early May, and the Thames valley was at its best. On either hand were fields sown thick with creamy daisies and yellow buttercups. Down in a marshy hollow they caught a glimpse of a carpet of golden kingcups, and once they passed a tiny dell in whose very heart an azure mist whispered of bluebells; while the blackthorn and the may made the air fragrant for miles. The birds were singing their hearts out in the mellow sunshine, and now and again the cuckoo's call came floating over the meadows from copse or spinney.

Ever and anon as they shot through some village hamlet they caught glimpses of orchards in full blossom, the pink and white bloom standing out against the pale blue of the sky with the effect of some delicate Japanese painting; and in all the little gardens flowers rioted joyously.

To Toni, spending her life in dingy Brixton, this afternoon was a red-letter day. The soft, clean air which blew in her face was different from the stagnant air of the Brixton streets; the scent of flowers was grateful after the odours of the City, and the vision, now and then, of the flashing river was a delight to eyes tired with much staring at ugly houses and shops.

If Toni said little during that magic excursion, it was not shyness alone which sealed her lips; and although he cast a look now and then at his companion, Owen was too considerate to break into her raptures with questioning words.

Only when they were approaching their destination did he begin to point out the various features of the landscape.

"That village over there is Willgate, noted for an old Saxon arch in its church. My mother used to go over there to evening service, I remember. She liked it better than our own church—the one you can just see peeping between the trees. The village—Willowhurst, I mean—lies round this bend. It's quite a rural-looking place, when you remember that after all it is not an hour's journey from Waterloo."

The car glided round the bend as he spoke, and Toni saw the village lying in the afternoon sunshine, which winked back from the windows of the little houses, built in a queer, old-fashioned manner round a small green. There was a pleasant, old-world look about the place which was oddly charming; and Toni was quite sorry when the car left the little green behind. But in another minute they were on a stretch of white road bordered by a high wall, behind which tall trees stood like sentinels; and Toni caught her breath as Owen said, in a voice which he tried, vainly, to keep steady:

"See, there's Greenriver—my home—beyond the trees."

They had reached the high gates in the wall, and when once they had entered and were rolling up the broad avenue Toni gazed eagerly in the direction he had indicated.

Greenriver was a stately old place enough. It had been built in the days of Queen Bess; and was just such a house as that in which Justice Shallow might have entertained Falstaff—a long grey building with a porch in the centre and a huge gable at either end—a house with deep-mullioned windows and large stacks of chimney-pots.

The house faced the river, to which it led by a terrace of velvety turf, broken here and there by gay flower-beds; while the real gardens lay at the other side of the building. Here beauty and dignity had joined hands, as it were, to preserve the stately loveliness of the grounds, under whose tall elms many a joyous company must have roamed when the river was the highway of elegance and fashion, and great barges floated down the Thames bearing Royal personages reclining on their couches covered with cloth of gold. Here on summer evenings the nightingales sang to the roses for which the gardens were famous; and for centuries the big white owls had hooted from their nests in the tree-tops, or flown, like pale ghosts, across the dusky paths.

The grounds were indeed noted all along the river for the magnificence of their green, velvety lawns, the size and beauty of the flowers in parterre and bed, the wonderful completeness—and in some cases the antiquity—of the contents of the famous herbaceous border; and Toni never forgot the sensation of awe which overwhelmed her as she realized that this glorious place belonged to the man beside her.

She spoke a little shyly as the car came to a standstill at the foot of the steps leading to the big door.

"This is your house?"

"Yes, this is Greenriver." He helped her out of the car. "And here is my old friend Mrs. Blades coming to meet us."

An elderly, rather prim-looking woman came forward as Owen advanced, and in her eyes shone a welcoming light.

"Come in, sir. We were beginning to wonder if you were coming to-day."

"Yes—started rather late." Owen gave her hand a friendly shake. "But we shan't have to go back just yet. I want to have a chat with you by and bye, Mrs. Blades. This young lady, Miss Gibbs, has kindly come down to help me with some work."

"I'm sure the young lady is very welcome," was Mrs. Blades' old-fashioned reply. "Shan't I make you a cup o' tea, sir, first of all?"

"Well, a cup of tea would be nice ... but I think, if Miss Gibbs isn't tired, we'll get on with our work first, and then we'll enjoy it better. Eh, Miss Gibbs?"

Miss Gibbs agreed; and five minutes later she was installed, with her typewriter, in the library. Owen busied himself, for a few moments, at the shelves, searching for the books he wanted; and Toni spent the time in gazing round her, wonder, admiration and awe mingling in her gaze.

The room was large and lofty and the big mullioned windows looked out upon a beautiful terrace, bordered with wallflowers, jonquils, and masses of dancing daffodils. The grass, smooth as velvet, led to a stone balustrade, beyond which lay the river, sparkling in the sunshine, whilst beyond that again were green fields, broken here and there by clumps of majestic trees, the fields in their turn leading to a range of distant, misty, blue hills.

The room itself was second only in interest to the view. In all her life Toni had never entered such a room—had never imagined, indeed, that private houses boasted such apartments.

The furniture was all of dark-green leather—the big saddle-bag chairs, the low divan and the smaller chairs all being upholstered in the same material, while the wall was distempered a lighter shade of green, and the carpet was of a darker tone. In one of the deep window embrasures was a bureau, of just the right height to allow anyone sitting before it to enjoy the prospect without; while the table at which Toni sat was a large, heavy affair, evidently intended for serious work.

But the generally sombre tone of the room formed an excellent background for the books which lined its walls. Shelf after shelf of them rose from the floor, almost to the ceiling; and since many were bound in soft, rich colours, they struck a delightful note in the rather dusky whole.

There were books bound in leather, dark-brown calf, soft red or blue morocco; richly-tooled volumes, slim books clothed in tan or purple suede, gay with gold edges and lettering; priceless old volumes, rare black-letter editions, poets, classics, all the standard novels.... Toni had never seen so many books in her life; and it must be confessed that she regarded them with something akin to awe.

Who in the world could wish to read these hundreds of volumes? For all their beautiful bindings she had a conviction that the contents would be appallingly dull; and her eyes fled gladly to the more congenial scene outside the windows where the flowers danced gaily in the sunshine and a little skiff floated by on the shimmering river, like some magic boat gliding to a haven in fairyland.

Presently Owen approached the table, bearing an armful of thin books, bound for the most part in soft fawn suede.

"Look, Miss Gibbs, these are the verses I want you to copy." He pointed out the poems, and gave her one or two instructions, while Toni, conscious that she had been dreaming away her time, hastily uncovered her typewriter and took up a sheet of paper.

"If you'll do these, I'll go and have a chat with old Mrs. Blades," said Owen presently. "Then we'll have tea, and if there's time I'll show you the gardens. They are really worth seeing."

She thanked him shyly and he went out. In the doorway he paused, looking back at her as she sat among the books; and if she had looked up she could not have failed to observe something odd in the expression with which he was regarding her.

But she did not look up; and after a few seconds' scrutiny he went out quietly and closed the door.

It did not take Toni very long to finish her task. Almost as she took the last sheet of paper out of the typewriter the door opened to admit Owen and a staid-looking maid with a tea-tray.

"Well, Miss Gibbs, finished?" Owen came forward with a smile. "That's good! Now you shall have some tea to refresh you after your toil. Let me see, Kate, where shall we have it?"

The maid suggested that the table in the far window would be suitable; and as the afternoon sunshine still streamed in, making a pleasant warmth, Owen agreed heartily.

Evidently Mrs. Blades had not been taken unprepared; for there were dainty sandwiches, hot cakes, and a big and substantial-looking seed-loaf, which was, so Owen informed his guest, his housekeeper's special pride.

"Now"—Kate had withdrawn after placing the massive silver tea-pot on the tray—"will you pour out for me, Miss Gibbs? And I'll hand the cakes."

Blushing gloriously, Toni slipped into the seat behind the tray. In honour of the fine day she had discarded her black frock for a serge skirt and a girlish-looking white blouse, open at the throat; and now that she had thrown aside her veil, her black hair, prettily loosened beneath her soft little hat, made an ebony frame for her vivid face.

As he watched her gravely attending to the duties of the tea-tray, Owen told himself that he might have made a worse choice.

He had long ago surprised her secret—although Toni had no idea of her self-betrayal. At this stage of her development Toni was pure emotion—a mere lamp through which love might shine unchecked, casting its beams unashamedly upon the object of its devotion. Later she might learn, as many women do, to interpose a veil between her soul and the world. The lamp would shine with a tempered beam, its glow moderated to a mere even, more tranquil light, and none would recognize the quality of its burning.

But at present Toni's love was so whole-hearted, so innocently, pathetically intense that it was no wonder Owen had divined both its nature and its object long ago.

Well, to a heart rendered sore by a woman's callousness, such a warm, eager devotion as this was inexpressibly attractive; and if Owen's eyes were blinded by suffering, there was surely a chance that Toni's soft fingers laid upon their lids might prolong the merciful myopia.

When tea was over there came a sudden little silence. The dusk was falling; and the garden wore a ghostly look; while the river lay passively unreflecting beneath the twilit sky.

The atmosphere of the room changed with the passing of the sunlight—grew tense, electric, almost, one would have said, expectant; and Owen realized that the moment for which he waited had come.

Toni, having finished her tea, was sitting rather slackly in her chair, gazing dreamily out of the window; and Owen hesitated for a minute before he spoke. She looked so young, so wistful, so helpless. It was almost unfair, selfish, to speak to the child—and then, suddenly, he knew that selfish or no, he must put an end to his own solitary sore-heartedness.

"Toni"—she looked up as he spoke, and his utterance of her name set the whole atmosphere throbbing with wild, sweet possibilities—"I want to ask you something."

She did not speak, only her eyes fastened on his face.

"Do you think, Toni"—for a moment he faltered, then plunged bravely on—"you could ever bring yourself to marry me? Oh, I know you're surprised—I ought not to spring it on you like this—but if you will be my wife I will do my best to make you happy."

There was a silence. Suddenly an owl flew, hooting, past the window, and in the dusk his white wings looked ghostly, unreal.

Then, quite quietly, Toni spoke.

"Mr. Rose, do you mean it? You want to marry me?"

"Yes, dear." For an instant he spoke as one speaks to a child, so powerful was the illusion of youth in the large-eyed Toni just then. "Well, what do you say? Will you have me?"

He was still sitting in the big chair opposite to her, one hand on the arm, the other clenched on his knee; and he was unprepared for Toni's answer.

With a sudden rush she was out of her chair, and the next moment she was kneeling beside him, her face all aglow with love and wonder.

"You mean it?" She could only, it seemed, question his meaning. "But—how did you know I loved you, Mr. Rose? I never let you see—did I?"

With that soft, sparkling face upturned to his, those Italian eyes gazing at him with an intensity of appeal in their liquid depths, one answer alone was possible.

"No, Toni, you never let me see that! But if it's true—if you do love me a little—well, is it—yes?"

For answer she suddenly laid her head on his knee and burst into a passion of wild sobbing. Poor, emotional, overwrought little Toni! Why she wept she had no idea, but it was the same emotion which had made her, as a child, weep at the sight of a group of violets growing in the grass, at the sound of the shepherd's pipe, the scent of the sea-laden breeze. Although her heart was so full of bliss that she could scarcely bear it, there was a wild, inexplicable sadness in it too, which tears alone could assuage; and though she tried to recapture her self-control, it was useless until she had cried away the first bewilderment.

But Owen, unused to the complex Southern nature, was thoroughly nonplussed by her tears. In vain he besought her to calm herself, begged her to listen to him, to refuse him if the thought of his offer made her miserable. Toni only cried the harder; and at last, uncertain of his ground, but feeling that something must be done, Owen stooped down and lifted her bodily on to his knee.

Once in his arms, her tears ceased as if by magic. She lay against his heart like a child, and as he felt her little body in his arms a new feeling of pity, almost of gratitude, awoke in his heart.

If his love meant so much to her—then it should be hers—if indeed love could be bestowed at will. In any case he would marry her and devote his life to making her happy; and in his curiously exalted state of mind Owen quite lost sight of the fact that when one is the lover and the other the beloved, between the two there is often a great gulf fixed.

* * * * *

When at last Owen roused the girl, who had sobbed herself into quiescence in his arms, the room was nearly dark.

"Come, Toni, it's getting cold and dark in here. What do you say, shall we get Mrs. Blades to give us a little dinner and go home by moonlight—or would you rather start at once?"

"I would rather go now." She spoke in a low voice, like a child that is uncertain of its treatment; and Owen guessed she was ashamed of her tears.

He set himself to reassure her.

"Well, just as you like. Wait a moment, though. I'll light a candle, and you shall put your hat straight, and tie on that precious veil of yours first."

While she tidied herself, rather self-consciously, before a large oval mirror, Owen gathered up the papers she had typewritten; and when he turned towards her at last she was able to conjure up a rather wan little smile.

"Good girl!" He laid his hand kindly on her arm. "Now we'll be off—but first, do you mind if I let old Blades into our secret? She's a faithful old soul, though her temper's a bit crabby, and she'll be awfully pleased!"

She assented, of course; and opening the door Owen led her across the dim hall towards the kitchen regions.

Evidently the magic hour of lighting-up was at hand, for when they had passed through the green baize door which shut off the servants' premises, they found themselves in a brightly-lit passage, at the end of which Mrs. Blades' voice could be heard energetically exhorting a maid to "be quick and take these lamps."

"Come along, we'll pay her a visit in her room," said Owen, his eyes sparkling with fun; and drawing Toni's arm through his he ran with her down the passage, and drew up finally in a large square room where Mrs. Blades was at work.

In spite of her shyness Toni was lost in wonder at the nature of that work. The room itself was lighted with gas, flaring in an iron cage; but on the table in front of Mrs. Blades were no less than ten small oil-lamps, evidently intended to hang against the wall, and fashioned in some wrought metal which gave them a curiously mediaeval look.

"Hallo, Mrs. Blades!" Owen's voice made her turn round quickly. "The Ten Little Ladies going as strong as ever, I see!"

"Yes, Mr. Owen, they're still on the go." She regarded the lamps affectionately. "At first Mr. Leetham used to say a good big lamp would be best, at the head of the stairs; but afterwards he got to like the Little Ladies, and we've had 'em every night."

"We'll have to go on having them," declared Owen. "Look, Toni, they're really quite pretty, aren't they? And thanks to Mrs. Blades they give a jolly good light."

"But—the 'Little Ladies'?" Toni looked, as she felt, puzzled.

"Yes, it was a fancy of my father's. He would never have gas anywhere except in the kitchens; and the long gallery upstairs, where all the bedrooms are, was always as dark as Erebus." He laughed, catching sight of the blank look on Mrs. Blades' face at the word. "So my mother invented these lamps, years ago when I was a tiny kid, and every night they are fixed at intervals along the walls of the gallery."

"But the name?"

"Oh, I don't know who first christened them, but they've always been known as the Ten Little Ladies—and always will be, I suppose. Eh, Mrs. Blades?"

"So long as I'm here, sir, I hope they will be," rejoined Mrs. Blades somewhat formally; and something in her tone made Owen remember his resolve.

He looked round. The door was open into the passage, a rosy-cheeked maid waiting, apparently, to carry off the tray with the Little Ladies; but on Owen approaching with the intention of closing the door she withdrew modestly out of earshot.

Coming back to the table Owen took one of Toni's hands in his and turned to the old housekeeper, who glanced with sudden shrewdness at the girl's shy face.

"Mrs. Blades," said Owen quietly, "Miss Gibbs has promised to marry me; and I hope that before many weeks are over we shall come down to live at Greenriver. Well, what do you say? Will you welcome us when we come?"

The half-boyish, half-masterful tone in which he spoke seemed too much for the old woman, who had watched Owen grow from boy to man, and now, after a lapse of years, saw him in his manhood. She looked first at him, then at the pale girl by his side, and her features worked oddly.

"Come, Mrs. Blades!" Owen had had enough of tears for one afternoon. "Cheer up! Don't look as if we were going to cut off your head! That's a poor welcome to Miss Gibbs!"

Thus reproved, the housekeeper did her best to conjure up a more cheerful expression; and managed presently to shake Toni's cold little hand with a respectful word or two; after which Owen discovered that it was high time to go.

Five minutes later Toni was snugly packed into the car again; and Owen was about to take his seat when he remembered that he had left the typewritten sheets in the housekeeper's room.

"I'll run back for them, Toni." He jumped down from the step. "I won't be a moment. You don't mind waiting?"

"Of course not!" She smiled up at him with dewy eyes. "Don't hurry—it's so lovely here in the dusk—the flowers smell so sweet."

Re-entering the house, Owen ran down the passage with hasty feet. Mrs. Blades, who had a tendency to what she called "chronical brownkitis," had not ventured to brave the night air; and Owen found her still regarding the Little Ladies, who burned trimly on the tray before her.

"All right, Mrs. Blades—I've only left some papers!" He snatched them up as he spoke, and crammed them into the pocket of his leather coat. "That's all—now I'm really off."

He patted her carelessly on the shoulder as he passed her; but to his surprise she put out a veined hand to stay his progress.

"Mr. Owen"—her voice shook—"do you really mean that you're going to marry the young lady?"

"Of course, Blades." Unconsciously Owen pulled himself together. "Why should I say such a thing if I did not mean it?"

"Because..." the old woman faltered "... Miss Gibbs ain't the sort of lady you ought to marry. She ... she's not like the other lady you were going to bring here as mistress of Greenriver ... the one as was presented at Court with all them lovely feathers in her hair."

An expression such as she had never seen before crossed Owen's face. He shook off her hand impatiently.

"Oh, you're an old silly, Blades." His voice was grating. "Miss Gibbs is a thousand times more suitable to be the mistress of Greenriver. The—the other lady thought very small beer of us all down here—she wasn't our sort, I assure you!"

"Neither is this one." The old woman stuck to her guns with the obstinacy of age. "Mr. Owen, I remember your father bringing home his bride—a girl she was, only eighteen—but the highest lady in the land couldn't have been evened to her. Miss Gibbs is pretty and a good girl, I'm sure, but—but she ain't like your mother, Mr. Owen; and you ought to look higher when you marry than her!"

"Don't be a fool, Blades!" Owen spoke angrily now. "If I think Miss Gibbs good enough to be my wife that's quite sufficient for everyone. After all, I'm not such a great catch," he added bitterly.

"Nay, Mr. Owen, don't be vexed with me!" Too late the old woman regretted her foolish words. "I'm growing old, and maybe I'm in my dotage ... ah, he's gone—I've driven the lad away with my folly!"

It was indeed so. Owen had flung out of the door angrily; and as she listened, half-afraid, she heard his steps receding down the passage towards the hall. There was impatience in his very tread; for, truth to tell, Owen felt a kind of hot anger welling in his heart as he remembered the words she had spoken.

At first he was merely annoyed at what he called her presumption—induced, he supposed, by her long connection with the family. But suddenly a feeling of vague uneasiness descended upon him, and he paused before going out to join Toni in the car.

"She only saw Toni for a moment—barely heard her speak—and yet she speaks as though I were making an unsuitable marriage." He frowned thoughtfully, anger dying before some feeling whose nature he could not, yet, recognize. "I wonder—what could she mean?"

He stood in the quiet hall, fighting down a host of surmises, of unwelcome doubts which sprang, it would seem, out of the twilight, brought to birth by an old woman's homely words; and in those illuminating seconds Owen allowed himself to wonder whether, after all, he had committed an action which he would find cause to regret.

But somehow the idea seemed a treachery towards the girl who sat waiting so trustfully, so happily for his coming; and with a sudden uplifting of his head, Owen went resolutely out to the car.

* * * * *

But Mrs. Blades, left alone, shod a few of the difficult tears of age as she went over the little scene. She felt suddenly old; and for the first time in her busy, self-satisfied life she questioned her own wisdom.

Then she too shook off her uncomfortable thoughts, and calling the rosy Maggie to her, delivered into her hands the Ten Little Ladies, who still waited patiently upon the tray for their nightly release.



CHAPTER VIII

On a beautiful midsummer morning Antonia Rose crept softly down the broad old staircase of Greenriver and crossed the hall with so fairy-light a tread that never a soul in the house could hear a footstep.

It was very early, barely half-past five; but the glorious summer morning was calling, calling insistently to Toni to come and share its glories; and the call was not one to be disregarded, by Antonia at least.

Not a thing stirred. In the gallery the Ten Little Ladies grew wan and faded before the vitality of the daylight; and when, after some difficulty, Toni unlocked the big hall door and let in a flood of sunshine, they gave up the unequal contest and expired quietly.

Ah! What a world of beauty burst upon Toni's gaze as she stood, thrilling delightfully with a sense of adventure, on the big stone steps outside the great door.

A rush of perfume from the tall lilies greeted her first; followed by a perfect shower of fragrance from the pink and creamy roses growing beside the door. Other scents there were—a dozen of them—from the flowers massed in glowing ranks in the beds; but the lilies and the roses had it all their own way; and Toni laughed with delight as they assailed her with their sweetness.

There was music, too, in this pearly dawn. In the trees the birds were astir, twittering their songs of morning; and already the velvety brown bees were beginning to hum their spinning chorus as they hovered here and there among the tall flowers which stood in rows before the windows, like marriageable maidens waiting for inspection.

Beyond the terrace lay the river, shining with that strange, ethereal effect of silver which water has beneath the early morning sky; and away beyond the river the thin, delicate mists of the night were rising like vaporous ghosts, to dissolve in the fresh, clean atmosphere of dawn.

"Oh, how beautiful it all is! What a lovely world God made when He made—this!" Toni stood on the steps with arms outstretched, like some young priestess of a pagan faith welcoming the sun. "And why do we lie asleep in stuffy beds when all the birds and flowers have been awake for ages!"

She pulled the big door gently to behind her, and then ran through the gardens and across the terrace to the big grey balustrade which kept the boundary of the garden from the towing path beyond. Leaning her arms on the stone she looked out over the shining river, and in fancy her spirit roved here and there—to the violet-strewn mountain slopes of Italy where she had passed her childhood ... to the wonderful, rocky coast of Cornwall where her honeymoon had been spent.

At the thought of the Cornish seas she caught her breath. Those marvellous green billows, foaming in the sunshine, dashing against the cliffs with a sound like thunder; the gentler wavelets creaming over the snow-white sands in lines of lotus-blue; the pools, deep and limpid, where in the aquamarine water all kind of strange sea-creatures lived; the jagged, tooth-like rocks springing from the depths of the ocean, ready to destroy the passing ships; the still more wonderful lighthouses, rising, some of them, like tall white needles into the turquoise sky; the gulls, flashing grey and white in the sunshine; the salt scent of the sea mingling with the pungent fragrance of the yellow gorse, hot with the sun ... surely the Cornish coast was a very favoured spot, and the Scilly Isles, to which passage could be taken in a queer, cranky boat, were indeed the Fortunate Isles, cradled by the bluest, most magical, most romantic waters in the world!

Thoughts of the ocean were indissolubly bound up with all Toni's thoughts of her honeymoon. Acting on a hint from Barry, Owen had taken his bride straight away from the Registrar's dingy office to Paddington, thence to Cornwall; and he would never forget the sight of Toni's face when first she saw the sea, lying purple and green beneath a stormy sky.

During the long journey she had said very little, shyness enveloping her as in a mantle; but when the train began to run along the sea shore, so that the whole expanse of ocean lay spread before the window, Toni's face changed, her eyes sparkled, and she turned to Owen with a spontaneous expression of delight.

Now, looking back, it seemed to Toni that never for an instant had the voice of the sea been out of her ears during all those wonderful days and nights. Its song had helped her to bear herself properly during the long hours alone with the man she had married. Again and again, when embarrassment threatened to overcome her at this unusually prolonged tete-a-tete, the sea whispered to her to take courage; and each night she fell asleep to its murmured lullaby.

During the fortnight which they spent down in the genial West Country, Owen gave himself up entirely to the service of his young wife. He divined pretty well what she was feeling—guessed that her marriage, after only three weeks' engagement, must have meant a complete upheaval of her entire life; and the very fact that he did not love her gave an added gentleness to his intercourse with her; for he could not rid himself of a sensation that somehow she had been cheated in this bargain, had been cajoled into giving the pure gold of love in return for the counterfeit of mere liking.

True, he did not repent his marriage. Rather it seemed to him that it might turn out successful after all; and since they spent the days exploring the coast, which was new to both of them, there was plenty to be said, an abundance of interesting subjects to discuss.

Only once—on the last night of their stay in Cornwall—was there the slightest suspicion of a shadow between them; and Owen blamed himself entirely for the occurrence.

It happened that Owen was suffering from a very severe headache—a not uncommon complaint since his accident—and the afternoon post brought him the proofs of an article required for the next number of the Bridge. An urgent note from Barry accompanied the papers, begging for an early revision; and after dinner Owen sat down to run through the article in preparation for dispatch in the morning.

But his brain refused to work. His eyes felt as though each eyeball were aflame; and his forehead was contracted with the severe pain which had racked him all day, so that consecutive thought was almost impossible. He tried, again and again, to do the work; but at length, so acute was the agony in his eyes, he threw aside the papers with a groan.

Immediately Toni looked up from the magazine she was reading.

"May I help you?" She put the question rather timidly, and by way of answer he tossed the bundle of proofs into her lap.

"Thanks awfully, dear. I simply can't see out of my eyes—neuralgia, I expect. Do your best, won't you? You know how to read proof as well as I do, now."

"Yes." So she did, for Barry had taught her thoroughly; and she had applied herself to his lessons with every fraction of her intelligence.

What he had not taught her, however, was an extensive knowledge of the master poets and their works; and Toni's ignorance betrayed her hopelessly.

At the old-fashioned school she had attended, few poets were considered fit for the girls' reading; Tennyson, of course, was included in the pupils' studies, and Shakespeare, carefully edited, was a standby; but of the works of Browning, Rossetti, Swinburne, Keats, Toni was lamentably ignorant.

When, therefore, in the article before her she found a quotation from one of Robert Browning's poems, followed almost immediately by a line from one of the poet's wife's writings, she concluded, hastily, that the printers were at fault, and cheerfully amended the latter initials to the one magic R. In the same way she confused Keats and Yeats; and finished by ascribing to Christina Rossetti one of Dante Gabriel's most impassioned utterances; thus destroying whatever value the article might have had, as a critical appreciation of the various writers' work.

Having completed her task Toni raised her eyes to look at her husband, and found him lying back in his chair watching her with a very kindly glance.

"Finished, little girl? That's good. I'll just initial it and send it back." He took the sheets she handed him and raised his eyebrows at the numerous corrections. "I say, they must be getting careless at the office to let all these slips go through!" He ran his eye over the page, more from force of habit than because he expected to find any more corrections necessary; and suddenly Toni, watching, saw him frown.

"I say, Toni, you've made a mistake." He tried not to speak sharply, for after all proof-reading is an art. "This line—'There may be Heaven, there must be Hell'—that's Robert Browning all right; but the next quotation is from the Sonnets to the Portuguese."

"Is it?" Toni did not understand.

"Well, Mrs. Browning wrote those, you know." He was busy repairing Toni's mistake. "And the next is hers, too. And——" he was skimming down the page "—why, you little goose, it was Dante Rossetti who wrote 'The Blessed Damosel.'"

"Was it? I thought her name was Christina." Toni's voice faltered; for though she did not yet realize the enormity of her offence, she knew that Owen was annoyed by her stupidity.

"Her name? Why, of course her name was Christina; but this happens to be his poem, you see."

"His? Whose?" Toni was flustered, or she would never have betrayed herself so utterly.

"Whose?" Owen, his nerves strained almost to breaking point by his bodily pain, spoke irritably, and Toni shrank miserably into her chair. "Why, Toni, have you never heard of the poet Rossetti? Good Heavens, child, don't you ever open a book?"

She said nothing, though the tears welled slowly into her eyes; and Owen went on reading, finding still further evidences of his wife's lack of acquaintance with the giants of literature as he read.

In an ordinary way he would have let her down gently. After all it is no crime to confuse two poets of the same name; and to "correct" a quotation by transposing two words into a more ordinary sequence is not a very heinous offence; but to Owen, racked with pain, the whole affair was an instance of the most flagrant ignorance, and he let fly one or two biting sarcasms as he bent over the papers, which reduced Toni to a state of trembling, impotent misery.

To do him justice Owen repented as soon as he had spoken, and when he saw how he had hurt her, he threw aside the proof-sheets and devoted himself to making amends for his harshness.

He succeeded finally in winning back something of her usual serenity; but to both the incident was oddly discomposing; to Toni because for the first time she saw the critic in the husband, and trembled to think how often she must fall short of his high standard; to Owen because the affair seemed to open up such vast tracts of ignorance in the woman who was his wife, and showed, more clearly than ever before, the dividing line between intellect and ordinary shrewdness.

For just one illuminating moment he saw Toni as she was; a pretty, winning, half-educated little girl, to whom the world of art and literature was a sphere apart, its shibboleths mere meaningless babble in her ears, its greatest exponents but so many confusing names, divorced from any enlightening personalities.

Where, he asked himself half desperately, was there any common meeting ground for two beings so widely diverse as they, husband and wife though they were? Surely they were as widely sundered as the poles....

And then the sight of Toni's face, her eyes filled with tears, her childish mouth quivering, lighted a sudden flame in his heart which consumed, for the time being, all doubts and petty vexations. After all, she was only a child—and she loved him; and so he took her in his arms and kissed away the tears with a remorseful tenderness which might well pass—with an uncritical being like Toni—for love.

But Toni was not thinking of that dreadful episode on this brilliant June morning. Rather she was trying to realize that she was the mistress of this beautiful place, that Greenriver, with its grounds, its flowers, its lofty rooms, was to be her home; and to the girl who had lived in Winter Road, Brixton, Greenriver was indeed a revelation.

They had been home a week; and so far Owen had not left her for more than a few hours, on the occasion of a business visit to London. The weather had been superb; and they had spent several long afternoons on the river, thereby missing, to Toni's great content, three or four callers who had come to see what manner of woman Owen Rose had married. That these calls must be returned Toni knew very well; but it must be confessed she shivered at the prospect; more especially as Owen had told her, laughingly, that she must not count upon his aid on those purely social occasions.

As the thought of the terrible duty-calls flashed through her mind Toni slipped down from her perch on the balustrade and made her way down to the towing path beneath. She often walked beside the river in these quiet morning hours, alone unless her dog Jock, an Airedale terrier of unimpeachable ancestry and cheerful disposition, was at hand to accompany her.

Jock had been presented to her by Barry as a wedding gift; and Toni, who had never before been on an intimate footing with a dog, found his companionship both delightful and stimulating. Although he was nearly two years old Jock was a puppy at heart. He did his best to comport himself as a full-grown dog should do: but had lapses into babyhood, when a shoe carelessly left about seemed too tempting; or, after a muddy walk, a soft satin cushion gave him an invitation to repose which could not possibly be denied.

He was a lovable creature, however, and a perfect gentleman as regards cats—a very desirable trait in an animal belonging to Toni, who loved all cats and would certainly have quarrelled with any dog who waged war upon the furry tribe.

To her satisfaction Jock came bounding over the terrace to follow her as she stepped on to the towing path; and together they strolled by the river in the fresh morning air, Toni gazing half-absently towards the distant hills, Jock keeping one eye and ear anxiously cocked in anticipation of any unwary rat who should show himself upon the river-bank.

Although Willowhurst was comparatively far from town there were a good many visitors on the river during the summer months. There was a perfect reach for punting just here, and many people came down to occupy the bungalows built on the opposite bank to that on which Greenriver stood. To Owen these little summer dwellings were in the nature of an eyesore. Fond as he was of his own beautiful house he would have liked to keep the neighbourhood free from this essentially modern phase of river-life; but to Toni the gay little bungalows had a charm of their own. They were all specially spick and span just now, having been newly painted and garnished with flowers for the season; and Toni looked across the river with frank interest at the Cot, the Dinky House, the Mascot, and the rest of the tiny shanties. She liked the houseboats, too, with their gaily-striped awnings, their hanging baskets filled with gaudy pink geraniums and bright lobelia. Their primly-curtained little windows amused her; and in the evenings she would lure Owen out on to the terrace to look down the river to where the Chinese lanterns hung on their poles like globes of magic light against the darkening sky.

Toni and Jock had strolled about a quarter of a mile down the path when they were brought sharply to a halt by the sound of a deep bark from the other side of the water; and looking across they found they were not the only waking creatures in this apparently sleeping world.

In one of the little gardens opposite to where they stood were a couple of friends like themselves; but in this case the human being was a man in his shirt sleeves, and the canine was a singularly beautiful white wolfhound, who stood, at the moment, barking defiance at the intruders on the opposite bank.

Jock, whose natural pugnacity was always easily aroused, returned the compliment with the most evident sincerity; but the Borzoi, having flung down the gage of battle and asserted her dignity, retired gracefully from the contest, and walking daintily up to her master rose and placed her slender paws on his shoulders, an action which said plainly that honour was satisfied.

The animal was so striking-looking, from her long, graceful head to her plumy tail, that Toni could not resist a second look; and the dog's master had a good view of the girl whom he guessed to be the young mistress of Greenriver, the house which he had often admired as he passed by in his boat during the summer days.

As she stood, gazing almost childishly across the intervening water, she looked barely more than a schoolgirl; and her short skirt and simple white blouse aided the illusion. It was only the sight of the coils of black hair which bound her head, and the gleam of the gold wedding-ring on her finger, which placed her definitely in the category of womanhood; and the man who watched her felt a strange sensation of something like pity for the girl launched so early on the sea of matrimony, a sea whose perils he, of all men, had cause to dread.

But suddenly Toni became aware of the indecorousness of her conduct. It was the height of discourtesy to stand staring; and with a blush she called Jock and turned hastily away to retrace her steps.

The man and the dog watched her go; and only when she was nearly out of sight did they turn back and re-enter the little white bungalow which was known locally as the Hope House.

At breakfast Owen asked Toni kindly if she felt inclined for a day on the river.

"I thought we might take our lunch and go quite a long way," he said. "I'm afraid this must be our last holiday jaunt for a little time. I shall have to be busy after this."

"Will you?" She looked a trifle wistful; and Owen was sorry for her.

"Well, I daresay I can manage a day off now and then. To-morrow's Thursday, isn't it? I must be up in town then, and I'm afraid I shall be late home. There's a dinner I rather wanted to attend, but it would mean a long evening alone for you."

"I don't mind." She smiled reassuringly. "I've got Jock to keep me company and there are plenty of people in the house."

"Well, Andrews is a pretty sturdy young chap, and of course there are three or four women. There's the telephone, too, you know, so you really needn't be nervous—especially now, when the river is as full of traffic as Bond Street!"

"I'm not a bit nervous," she said. "I ... I was just wondering——"

She broke off, flushing, and Owen felt an unwonted curiosity as to her meaning.

"Well?" He spoke kindly, but Toni seemed unable to proceed.

"I was thinking ... I mean ..." Suddenly impatient of her own cowardice she took her courage in both hands and spoke bravely. "I was wondering whether you would allow me to ask Fanny—my cousin—down for the afternoon. You see, if you are away——"

"Why, of course, dear!" Owen spoke the more heartily because he felt a slight compunction at the thought of her relations. "Ask your cousin by all means. You must remember that this is your house, Toni, and you need not ask my leave to invite your friends."

"Thank you." She was looking down as she spoke, but her cheeks were scarlet. "I will ask her then ... but ..." suddenly her words came with a rush "... I know my people aren't like yours ... I couldn't let them meet your friends ... I mean—I'll ask them when you are not at home, and then——"

"Don't be a goose, Toni!" Owen hoped his voice betrayed nothing. "Your people are my people now, you know, and I don't want you to get any silly ideas into your head at the start."

She stretched out her hand impulsively and laid it on his arm.

"Owen, you're too good to me. I know so well that we belong to different worlds, but ... if you mean that——"

"Of course I mean it." He rose as he spoke and patted her shoulder. "Don't be a little silly—and now run away and write to your cousin at once. If she can't come to-morrow, suggest Friday."

"Oh, she couldn't come then," returned Toni naively. "You see the shop closes on Thursday afternoon, and it's Fanny's only free day."

"I see." Somehow the little explanation, with its picture of a different life from that to which he was accustomed, struck a chill to Owen's heart; but he hid his discomfort cleverly and bade Toni write her letter without delay.

* * * * *

Miss Gibbs accepted the invitation joyfully; and on Thursday morning Owen went off to town, after bidding Toni keep her cousin to dinner if possible.

"She can take the nine-fifteen to town," he said. "I have the car, but if she can stay, telephone for a taxi from the station to be here at nine. You won't be lonely, Toni?"

"Not a bit!" Indeed she was thrilling with pleasure at the idea of entertaining her cousin in her new home. "I've lots to see to. What a pity Mrs. Blades is ill to-day."

"Yes, her usual bronchitis, I suppose. She'll be all right in a day or two." Owen was hunting for a paper as he spoke. "Confound it, where is that manuscript, Toni? You know the one—that article on Alfred Noyes."

"It's here." Toni handed him the paper he required.

"Thanks awfully. You're a first-rate little secretary, Toni! I guess we shall miss you at the office!"

He did not observe the rather wistful look which swept over her face at the half-careless praise. At that moment Toni felt she would have asked nothing better than to jump into the car and journey up to town with Owen to take her old place behind the typewriter in Owen's room. She hated to see him leaving her, longed to beg him to stay; but something stronger than personal longing held her back. A wife, she told herself, must be a help, not a hindrance; and since Owen saw fit to leave her, to carry on the work in which she had now no place, her duty, plainly, was to remain at home and keep everything in her little world in order for his return.

Besides, it was a glorious day, the sun was shining, the flowers dancing in the breeze; and Fanny would be with her during the afternoon. It was a day created for gladness, for rejoicing, and Toni, made wise by love, banished wistfulness from her eyes and returned Owen's kiss with a gay word of farewell.

But she stood looking after him as the car whizzed down the avenue; and the smile which touched her lips was just a little sad.



CHAPTER IX

When Owen was safely gone Toni entered the house with a look of determination on her face, and retreating to the little white-panelled room known as the morning-room she rang the bell to summon Kate to her presence.

It was not Kate who answered the ring, however. In her stead came Maggie, the rosy-faced housemaid, who had already fallen in love with her young mistress, and was ready to carry out any order which Mrs. Rose might give.

"Oh, it's you, Maggie?" Toni looked up from the paper on which she was scribbling. "Where's Kate?"

It seemed Kate was busy, poulticing Mrs. Blades, who was suffering under one of her usual attacks of bronchitis, and she had sent Maggie, with apologies, in her stead.

"Mrs. Blades is really ill? Had she better see a doctor?"

No, Maggie was empowered by Kate to say that a doctor's visit was unnecessary. Mrs. Blades often had these attacks, and they knew just what to do; but she would not be able to attend to her duties for a couple of days at the least.

In spite of herself Toni's face brightened. Not that she wished Mrs. Blades to suffer, but she knew quite well that the old housekeeper, for all her respectful ways, resented the arrival of a mistress of whom, for some reason, she did not approve; and Toni felt rather glad that for to-day, at any rate, she could be in reality the mistress of the whole establishment.

With the other servants she was on the best of terms. Whatever Mrs. Blades might think of Toni's social position previous to her marriage she was sufficiently loyal to keep her doubts to herself; and Martha the cook, Kate the serious parlourmaid, and Andrews the young man-servant, one and all combined to make their new mistress feel at ease with her staff.

Maggie, to-day, was full of importance at being allowed to replace Kate to assist Toni in her preparation for the afternoon's visitor; and she listened attentively to all that Toni had to say.

"I want a really nice tea, Maggie!" Toni looked up from her list with a serious face. "Miss Gibbs has to catch an early train from town, and won't have time for much lunch." Even the unsophisticated Toni knew better than to mention the nature of Miss Gibbs' employment. "So I want tea at four o'clock and it must be pretty—well, substantial."

Maggie fully endorsed the suggestion, and waited to see what Mrs. Rose considered necessary for the meal.

"Tea and hot cakes, of course. And that lovely plum cake Martha made for ..." Toni blushed, but went on bravely "... for our wedding-cake. And then—is it possible to get shrimps, Maggie?"

"Why, yes, ma'am—don't you remember cook's shrimp savoury for Sunday lunch? And you'd shrimp sauce with the fish last night."

"Of course, so we had. Well, when the man calls from the fish shop, order some. You get them by the pint—or is it the pound?" said Toni, vaguely remembering her aunt's orders on the occasion of a tea-party.

Maggie thought it was the pint; and in any case she would give the order to the young man herself.

"Very well. And then—what else, Maggie? I do want a nice tea."

The little handmaiden eagerly racked her brain for some brilliant idea; and finally suggested that Cook was very fond of making "shape."

"Shape? Oh, I see," said Toni a trifle dubiously. "You mean a blanc-mange or a cream. But I don't think it would do for tea."

Maggie thought, respectfully, that it would do fine. In her last place her mistress always had a shape when company was coming to tea. But—suddenly her rosy face grew even more pink—perhaps she was wrong, and anyway Mrs. Rose knew best.

Sorry for the girl's evident embarrassment Toni gave the order forthwith for a cream; and then turned to the subject of dinner.

"Miss Gibbs will stay to dinner, and we will have it at half-past seven. That gives us time to go on the river first; and the cab won't be here till nine."

"Cook's sent you a mennyoo, ma'am." Maggie produced a somewhat crumpled piece of paper. "She thought perhaps something of this sort would do."

Toni ran her eye over the paper, and her brow cleared.

"Soup, fish, sweetbread and green peas, chicken...." she gave the paper back. "Yes, it will do beautifully, and I'm sure Miss Gibbs will like Martha's trifle. Well, Maggie, that's all, I think. Have I forgotten anything?"

The two girls stared at one another for a moment, their faces quite solemn with the effort of concentration. Then Toni relaxed and spoke gaily.

"No, that's all, I'm sure ... well, Maggie, what have you thought of now?"

"Please, ma'am, the flowers."

"Yes, I'd forgotten! Good girl, Maggie! Well, get me the scissors and a basket, and then you might put the vases ready in the little room."

Maggie flew to obey the commands, and Toni, to whom the idea of giving orders was still almost ludicrous, strolled to the window to await her return.

The room overlooked the river, and on that account was a favourite with Toni. It was reached by a short flight of stairs apart from the main staircase, and boasted a large casement window, built over the terrace below, and giving the river an air of proximity which always delighted Toni.

To-day the water sparkled in the sunshine with a very cheerful effect; and as Toni looked a cream-white swan drifted by, the sun's light turning its feathers into a kind of gilded snow. A punt passed slowly with two occupants, one a girl in a white frock, lying lazily on a heap of blue-green cushions, her uncovered head protected from the sun by a scarlet parasol, the other a bronzed and fair-haired youth, who wielded his pole with an athletic grace purely Greek.

Toni's eyes softened as the two glided by. Her own happiness was so immense, her love for Owen had been so wonderfully, so completely satisfied, that she wished all other girls to be as happy as she was; and although the two in the punt were only visible for a few moments she thought she could read in their faces the story of their mutual attraction.

When Maggie returned Toni took the basket and went out into the garden. Gathering flowers was an occupation of which she never tired. Never, since her days on the hill-slope above Naples, had she been able to indulge her passionate love for flowers; and to the girl who had been wont to regard sixpence spent on a branch of golden mimosa, or a handful of the big pink carnations which seem indigenous to the London streets, as something of an extravagance, the delight of filling bowls and vases with unlimited supplies of the loveliest, freshest flowers could not be overrated.

To-day she cut more lavishly than usual in Fanny's honour, and when, just as the lunch gong sounded, she rested from her labours, the lovely old house was a dream of beauty and colour and scent.

Snapdragons, in every shade of yellow and pink and deep, rich rose, stood in tall jars, wherever there was a dark corner to be lighted up. Big blue bowls held masses of roses of every describable hue, whose fragrance scented all the house; and every available inch of space had been utilized as a resting-place for one or more vases of the sweetest, gayest blooms imaginable.

Even Toni was satisfied at last, and she hurried over her lunch in good spirits. Just as she was rising from the table a thought struck her.

"Kate, do you think we might have tea in here? You see—we ought to have a table, I think—and it wouldn't matter for once, would it?"

Kate, who had experienced sundry qualms at the idea of a feast of shrimps in the charming, old-world drawing-room, gave a decided assent.

"It would be much more suitable, ma'am. I could put a pretty lace cloth on the table, and then with some flowers it would look quite nice."

"Thank you, Kate." Toni gave vent to a relieved sigh. "You and Maggie are really treasures in helping me. Oh—how is Mrs. Blades!"

Mrs. Blades was better; but Kate, who had a shrewd notion of the old woman's real opinion of her pretty mistress, was not ill-pleased to inform Toni that the bronchial attack from which she was suffering made it impossible for her to supervise the household affairs for to-day at least.

"Well, you must look after things for me, Kate," said Toni, smiling in a friendly fashion at the girl; and Kate, although she had lived in "smart" houses, and knew that shrimps and blanc-mange were not usually met with at tea, succumbed still more completely to that friendly little smile.

"Why shouldn't she have her tea-party as she likes it?" she said to herself as she went out. "The master's away, and she's not likely to do this sort of thing when he's about." Kate, who was thirty-one, and experienced in the ways of the world, was quite aware of the element of awe in Toni's love for her husband—an element of which Toni herself was as yet wholly unsuspicious. "And I've no doubt this young lady as is coming down isn't used to great things. You can see as Mrs. Rose hasn't lived with anyone partikler—but she's a real little lady in her ways, for all that," concluded this authority on the ways of gentlefolk.

* * * * *

Punctually at three o'clock Miss Gibbs arrived; and was shown into the drawing-room, where Toni awaited her coming.

To tell the truth Miss Gibbs was a little awed by the unexpected grandeur of her surroundings; and not even the consciousness of her new linen frock and elaborately-trimmed hat could give her quite her usual assurance.

She followed Andrews meekly across the hall, hardly daring to lift her eyes; and when the man threw open the drawing-room door and ushered her in, Fanny unconsciously moderated her usual hearty footstep and endeavoured to make her entry as inconspicuous as possible.

Toni, who had not heard the cab arrive, jumped up hastily from her low chair and ran to meet her cousin, while Andrews discreetly withdrew and closed the door.

"Fanny! How glad I am to see you!" Toni hugged Miss Gibbs affectionately. "I'd have come to meet you but I was so late with lunch that I hadn't time."

"I found a cab waiting for me," said Fanny, returning her embrace. "You were a dear to send it, Toni. You're quite a way from the station, aren't you?"

"I suppose we are," said Toni carelessly. "But how are you, Fan? And Auntie—and Lu and all of them?"

"Mother's first-rate and longing to see you when you can get up to town. Everyone's all right," said Fanny comfortably. "Lu's been in mischief again, though. She and some of the girls from her school played truant t'other day and went to see a County cricket-match. You know cricket's the craze this term, and they got their money stolen and couldn't get home, and Lu didn't land up till ten o'clock at night!"

"You don't mean it! What did Auntie say?"

"She didn't say much then, 'cause Lu was cryin' and nearly dead with tramping for miles; but next day she got a jolly good whipping and was shut up on bread and water all over Sunday."

"Oh, poor Lu!" Toni felt very pitiful towards the hapless cricket enthusiast. "After all, Fan, you and I once ran away to see the Boat Race on our own!"

"Yes, and we got jolly well punished for it, too! I can remember Ma's slipper to this day!"

"Well, you ought to be sorry for Lu!"

"Serve her right," said Miss Gibbs with sisterly severity. "Cricket, indeed! What do girls want with cricket! Anyhow, she won't do it again in a hurry—Ma saw to that!"

"And how's Josh, Fan?" Toni saw that no sympathy was to be looked for from the culprit's sister.

"A 1. I say, Toni, where's Mr. Rose?" Fanny, regaining some of her usual assurance, looked round her vaguely.

"He has had to go up to town. But I thought you wouldn't mind, Fan. I want to show you the house and have a real good talk."

"My! It is a house and no mistake!" Fanny gazed about the beautiful room with frank admiration. "I thought the man must be going wrong when he turned in here—and what lovely gardens you've got."

"Yes, they are jolly, aren't they? Well, shall we go over the house before tea or after? It's very nearly four, and I said we'd have tea early."

"I'm glad of that." Fanny beamed approval. "To tell you the truth, Toni, I hadn't time for much lunch. We're supposed to shut at one, you know, but of course we don't get off at once, and to-day everything went wrong! At the last minute I upset a box of ribbons, and the spiteful things all went and got unrolled, and then that odious little Jackson—you know, the shopwalker I told you about—came and slanged me like anything."

"What a shame!" Toni had been one of the workers of the world too recently to have lost sympathy with the grievances of those who work. "I wish you could leave the old shop, Fanny. Why don't you and Josh get married?"

"Too soon." Fanny was of a prudent nature. "We must wait till Josh gets a rise, and I can't afford to leave the shop. You see, I must have a few clothes before I marry ... by the way, Toni, what about your clothes? You didn't get much when you married, did you?"

"No, but before we came here we went up to town and stayed at the Russell for two days and did a whole heap of shopping." Toni stifled a sigh at the thought of those long hours spent in shops. "You see I didn't really know what to get, so Owen went, with me, and I got a lot of things ready-made, and was fitted for others, so I have quite a trousseau by now!"

"That skirt's well-cut," said Miss Gibbs, surveying her cousin critically. "Blue serge always looks well—and that white blouse is good thick silk."

"I'm glad you like it. Owen likes me in these low collars, and they're cool." Toni looked at the clock. "But come upstairs and take off your hat and we'll have tea straight away."

Nothing loth, Miss Gibbs agreed; and went into fresh raptures when she saw Toni's bedroom.

"My! What lovely furniture!" She went up to the toilet-table and began to examine it. "And these silver brushes and things—are they all yours?"

"Yes. Owen gave them to me."

"Well to be you," commented Miss Gibbs briskly. "What a lovely long glass, too! Can't you see yourself properly just!"

She stood in front of the glass so long that Toni grew impatient.

"Hurry up, Fan! I'm sure tea's ready and I'm dying for some. I hadn't much lunch."

Thus incited, Miss Gibbs laid aside the flowery hat she had been admiring, disclosing a much curled and waved coiffure, and together the cousins ran downstairs, just as Andrews carried in the silver tea-pot and the hot cakes.

Kate, true to her word, had made the best of the oval table. She had laid upon it the finest, laciest cloth she could find, and had placed in the centre a tall jar of lilies, while here and there she had found room for small silver bowls of pink roses. The silver tea-tray, with its thin china cups and saucers, stood proudly at the head of the table; and so far nothing could have been more charming.

But alas! Even Kate could not hide the eminent unsuitability of the feast itself to its elegant surroundings. True, the bread and butter was of wafer-like thinness, there were hot cakes of the crispest, finest variety, and the plum-cake which was Martha's welcome to the bride was of the richest, most tempting description.

But side by side with those delicacies was a dish of shrimps, in all their native vulgarity; and further down, almost hidden in fact by the flowery centrepiece, was a glass dish containing a velvety white cream whose real place should have been on the dinner-table.

For a moment Toni's heart misgave her as she saw these things in their blatancy; and she wished she had stuck to the usual tiny sandwiches which Martha sent up when she and Owen were alone. Then she remembered, gratefully, that Fanny was hungry, and common sense whispered that to a girl who had lunched lightly a sandwich was unsatisfying fare.

As for Fanny, her spirits, momentarily damped by the sight of the silver tray, rose with a bound as she surveyed the table.

"I say, Toni, what a spread! Shrimps, I declare! Well, I thought you'd have been much too smart nowadays to think of them!"

"Nonsense!" Toni's depression vanished, and she laughed gaily. "I always did like shrimps—and why shouldn't I have them if I want them? Come and sit down, Fan—here, by me—and do make a good tea!"

Fanny needed no second bidding. Taking the seat indicated she leaned forward to examine the silver in the most open fashion.

"I say, you've got some tiptop things and no mistake! That cloth is simply lovely—just look at the lace, as fine as fine!"

"It belonged to Owen's mother," said Toni, passing her a cup of tea. "There are lots of things like that in the house. Now, Fanny, help yourself—and pass the dish!"

Thus invited, Fanny did help herself; and presently both girls were happily eating and talking, Fanny asking innumerable questions and Toni satisfying her curiosity without entering into details.

Suddenly Toni jumped up.

"There's Jock at the door. You must see him, Fan—he's a darling, and I'm sure you'll love him!"

Almost before the door was properly open Jock hurled himself reproachfully into the room, and flinging himself on to his mistress, inquired in the plainest dog-language why she had been so slow in answering his summons. When she had apologized and received his forgiveness, she introduced him to Miss Gibbs, who was won immediately by his courteous manner towards her and the friendliness in his nice brown eyes.

She cemented the acquaintance by offering him—timidly—a piece of cake; and instantly Jock threw dignity to the winds and begged, shamelessly, for further morsels; which being denied him caused him to bark vociferously and show off his few tricks in the hope of adequate reward.

He was engaged in walking on his hind legs round the room, following Fanny, who was laughing excitedly and flourishing a piece of cake, while Toni clapped her hands and called out words of encouragement at the top of her voice, when a loud whirring sound on the gravel outside made both girls turn in the direction from which came the noise—just in time to see a big grey car shoot by the window on its way to the front door.

One glance was enough.

"Good gracious, Fan! Visitors! What a bore!"

"Will they come in? Won't your man say you're out?" gasped Fanny, hastily dropping the bit of cake she held and pinning up a roll of hair which had come down in the game.

"No—they saw us," said Toni wildly. "I never said I wasn't at home—and anyway they'd hear us laughing!"

In a dead silence the two girls stood, waiting breathlessly to see what would happen; and in the sudden hush they heard the clang of the big bell, and Andrews' speedy arrival in the hall.

For one wild moment Toni thought of waylaying him with instructions to send the visitors away. The next instant she realized that such a course was impossible, and waited helplessly for the next act of the drama.

Andrews opened the door, and Toni heard a gentle, cultured voice ask if Mrs. Rose were at home.

For a fraction of a second Andrews, who was young enough to be human, and had not yet become a machine, hesitated as though he would fain deny his mistress to these invaders; but finally habit triumphed over humanity and he replied stolidly in the affirmative.

The next moment Toni, standing by the door, heard the rustle of skirts and the firm step of a man, which sounds proceeded in the direction of the drawing-room; and with an agonized sign to her cousin Toni flew back to her seat behind the tea-tray just as the door opened to admit Andrews.

The visitors, knowing themselves unknown, had provided the servant with cards; and these Andrews silently presented to his mistress, who took them with a shaking hand.

"The Honourable Mrs. Anstey, Miss Olive Lynn, Mr. Barry Raymond——" She broke off with a sigh of relief. "Why, that's Owen's friend, Fanny. It's not half so bad if he's there!"

She turned to the man.

"Are they in the drawing-room, Andrews?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh!" For a second Toni hesitated, then common sense came to her rescue. "I will come, Andrews. Fanny, will you come with me?"

"Oh, do let me stay here," begged Miss Gibbs, who was still endeavouring to make herself tidy. "I'm such a sight, playing with the dog—but you go, Toni ... and p'raps they won't stop long."

Toni walked across the hall with lagging footsteps, preceded by the sympathetic Andrews, who threw open the door for her with a compassionate air, and then retired to break the news of this intrusion to the maids who were anxiously waiting his return.

In the drawing-room were three people; and as Toni made her entrance, looking like a veritable schoolgirl in her blouse and short skirt, the oldest of the trio came forward with an expression of surprise on her beautiful, faded face.

"Mrs. Rose?" She shook hands. "I am so glad to find you at home. This is my niece, Miss Lynn, who is staying with me—and Mr. Raymond I think you know?"

Toni, feeling shyer than ever, shook hands with the pretty, grey-eyed girl who approached at the sound of her name; and then turned, with a feeling of genuine relief, to Barry.

"Mr. Raymond! I'm so pleased to see you—but I'm afraid Owen isn't at home!"

"I know that!" He laughed. "He is doing a little work to-day, for a change—and my call is really on you!"

"Well, won't you sit down?" Toni drew a low chair forward for Mrs. Anstey, who accepted it with a smile, while Olive Lynn sank down on the couch, where, after a second's pause, Toni also took her seat.

"I had hoped to see you before now," said Mrs. Anstey, with a smile which won Toni's impressionable heart. "But I heard you had only just got home, and thought I would give you a chance to settle down."

"It is very good of you to come," said Toni simply. "You live some distance away, don't you? I think my husband pointed out your house to me when we were motoring one day."

"Yes, nearly eight miles off—in the next village, in fact. But as you have a motor I hope you'll come over and see me pretty often." She gave the invitation with a pleasant note of sincerity. "Just at present my niece is taking pity on me, but I am very lonely sometimes."

"I will come, certainly," said Toni, feeling curiously at ease with this charming, elderly woman who, in spite of her aristocratic bearing, was so delightfully kindly. "I haven't returned any calls yet—but my husband tells me I must really start next week."

"Do—and come to tea with me first of all." Mrs. Anstey spoke quite unconsciously, but something in her words aroused Toni to a sense of her own deficiencies as hostess.

Tea—of course! Owen had told her that it was imperative to offer tea to afternoon visitors; and these people had motored eight miles over a dusty road—they must be hot and thirsty and longing for tea.

Yet—suddenly Toni felt it would be impossible to ask her guests to participate in the feast which she had spread for Fanny. The delicacies which had been prepared for her cousin took on a very uncouth appearance, and from the bottom of her heart Toni wished she had kept to the usual regime of dainty sandwiches and cakes.

Yet she must offer tea—and quickly, before her visitors had time to doubt her hospitable intentions. She was so lost in thought that she let Mrs. Anstey's remark go unanswered; and Barry, looking at her, wondered what had made her suddenly colour hotly and look embarrassed and nervous.

Truth to tell, Toni was hot all over. A more experienced hostess than she would have rung the bell and requested Andrews to bring tea; and doubtless he would have done so without delay, thereby saving the situation; but to Toni's mind the fact that tea was ready in the room across the hall quite precluded the possibility of having another tea brought for the latest visitors; besides which it flashed through her mind that these people must have seen the tea-table through the big dining-room window.

Olive Lynn, seeing her confusion, but not understanding its cause, tried good-naturedly to put her at her ease.

"I think I saw you on the river last night, didn't I? We were in a canoe, and you and Mr. Rose were punting."

"Oh—yes!" Toni, still wrestling with her problem, answered rather vaguely. "We—we had taken tea with us and were late home."

"That's so jolly, isn't it?" Olive smiled. "We often do that—take a tea-basket and have a picnic."

Tea again! Suddenly Toni grew desperate. Tea must be offered; there was no way out of this dilemma save a frank acceptance of the situation; and with a sinking heart Toni took the plunge.

"I ... we were just having tea, my cousin and I," she said abruptly. "Will you ... will you come and have some? I'm sure you must be thirsty after your drive."

Mrs. Anstey, with a look at her niece, accepted courteously. It was a hot day and the roads were dusty, and in a house like Greenriver one need not be afraid of putting one's hostess out by accepting a cup of tea.

"Thank you. A cup of tea would be very refreshing—I'm sure Olive thinks so, don't you, dear?"

"Oh, I'm always ready for tea," replied the girl, laughing, "and motoring does make one thirsty, doesn't it, Mrs. Rose?"

"Will you come, then?" Toni had risen, and now moved, feeling cold with nervousness, towards the door. "We ... we are having tea in the dining-room to-day."'

Barry opened the door as she spoke; and together the little party crossed the hall to the dining-room. Andrews was hovering about; and as he saw his mistress leading her guests he slipped away in search of fresh cups and a supply of hot tea.

Inside the dining-room Miss Gibbs, having reduced her appearance to something like order, was sitting rather apprehensively in her place; and as the door opened to admit the quartette she rose and stood waiting nervously for Toni's introductions.

These were soon made. Mrs. Anstey and Olive shook hands with Fanny, each of them wondering in her mind at the relationship between her pretty, shy hostess and this florid, rather overdressed young woman; but convention mercifully intervened to hide their wonder; and Fanny could find no fault with their courteous greetings.

With Barry it was quite impossible to feel ill at ease; and he shook hands so nicely, making a remark about Jock as he did so, that Fanny felt suddenly comfortable again.

The guests, in response to Toni's invitation, seated themselves; Olive taking a chair by Fanny's side, while Mrs. Anstey sat next to her hostess, and Barry appropriated a stool beside the elder woman.

Andrews entering with fresh supplies, Toni provided her visitors with tea, losing her first nervousness as she did so; and for a moment it seemed as though the little party would be a success after all.

Mrs. Anstey had just accepted a hot cake, and Olive was begging prettily for another lump of sugar, when Jock, who had been sitting quietly beside his mistress, suddenly rose and rushed madly over to the window, uttering a succession of shrill barks as he did so.

Everyone glanced at the window to see what had disturbed him; and there, on the gravel outside, stood two ladies, evidently a little uncertain of the Airedale's intentions.

"I think those are some more visitors, Mrs. Rose!" Barry gave her a quizzical look. "It never rains but it pours! Shall I ... er ... Jock seems a little anxious to send the visitors away!"

Luckily the window was raised a good height from the ground; and Jock was obliged to content himself with putting his paws on the window-seat and barking still more fiercely at the figures without.

Presently, however, the two ladies appeared to regain the courage they had momentarily lost; and vanished from sight in the direction of the front door; which was shortly opened by Andrews, who had evidently been lurking in the hall listening to Jock's protestations.

It is possible that the man, who was really little more than a boy, lost his head; or perhaps he was infected by the spirit of nervousness which had gripped Toni earlier in the afternoon. At any rate, whatever the excuse, he made no pretence of showing the new-comers into the drawing-room, but opened the dining-room door and ushered them straight into the presence of his mistress; after which he closed the door and leaned against the wall, aghast at his own stupidity.

To make matters worse, he had announced the ladies in so indistinct a voice that Toni had not the faintest notion who her visitors were; and for a second they stared helplessly at one another, while Jock, who had conceived a violent dislike for these latest comers, barked loudly and unmercifully throughout.

At last, however, just as Toni mustered up courage to shake hands, Mrs. Anstey came to the rescue.

"Why, Lady Martin, I had no idea you were home again. You have come to welcome Mrs. Rose, I suppose. My dear"—to Toni—"Lady Martin is your nearest neighbour—really near, I mean; only a mile away."

"Less by the fields." Lady Martin spoke magisterially. "And this fine weather tempted us to walk, although both the cars were standing idle in the garage."

Having thus established her position as the owner of two cars, Lady Martin brought forward her daughter and presented her to Toni, who received an instant impression of size, teeth and volubility as Miss Martin shook hands and expressed her pleasure at finding Mrs. Rose at home.

The next thing to do was obviously to provide chairs for the guests, and this Toni did, with the help of Barry, who appeared to be on fairly friendly terms with the two ladies; and once again Toni turned her attention to filling teacups.

Fanny, who had been somewhat overlooked during the last strenuous moments, was relieved to hear herself addressed in a friendly tone by Miss Lynn, who felt sorry for the girl, so obviously ill-at-ease; and in return for the kindly attention Fanny eagerly handed Olive the dish of shrimps with an invitation to "try some."

Olive Lynn, who had possibly never met these small creatures in their native armour before, hesitated, casting a look at Barry at the same moment; but he was engaged in handing Lady Martin some bread and butter; and Olive's appeal went unanswered.

Taking Miss Lynn's silence for consent, and being really anxious to help Toni by making her guests eat a good tea, Fanny eagerly piled her neighbour's plate with shrimps; and at that moment Lady Martin first discovered what plebeian dishes the table held.

Ignoring Barry and his bread and butter, she put up her lorgnette and deliberately scrutinized the heap of pink shrimps which Fanny, pleased with her success, was just pushing across to Miss Martin. For a second her ladyship was speechless; then, as her daughter turned a haughty stare upon the officious commoner, Lady Martin spoke.

"I think, Lucretia, you had better leave those—er—shellfish alone. I understand there is always a danger of ptomaine poisoning with such things."

Toni dropped a lump of sugar with a clatter on the tray and turned scarlet. Lady Martin's tone was so deliberately offensive, her manner so disagreeable, that Toni felt like a chidden schoolgirl; and again the enormity of her social mistake swept over her, rendering her quite incapable of making any reply to the attack.

But rescue was at hand. Barry, who from the first had felt a chivalrous interest in his friend's wife, had seen the colour sweep into her face, and had determined that the Martins, mother and daughter, should not exercise their well-known prerogative of snubbing any woman who did not boast a title.

It is true that Lady Martin was the wife of a soap manufacturer, knighted for services to his party; and both sprang from a very humble class; but what they lacked in breeding they made up for in arrogance; and Lady Martin had early determined that if she wished to become a power in the neighbourhood she must assert herself on every occasion. Also, she had intended to patronize the young mistress of Greenriver; and to find Mrs. Anstey, the only person in the district of whom she stood in awe, here before her had disturbed her mean little soul.

Barry, quick as a woman in some matters, read her mind accurately, and immediately ranged himself on the side of his embarrassed hostess.

"Are those shrimps, Mrs. Rose? And you never asked me to have any!"

He flashed a laughing glance at her, and drew the dish towards him, resolved that he at least would not shirk his duty.

"I ... I'm sorry ... I forgot," said Toni lamely. "But ... please don't have any if you'd rather not."

"It seems hardly the hour for these—delicacies," said Lady Martin, waving haughtily aside the dish Barry offered her mischievously. "In sauce—or pates—yes ... but now—no!"

"Oh, you're making quite a mistake," said Barry coolly, helping himself as he spoke. "They are delicious with bread and butter. Olive, you've got some? That's right. Mrs. Anstey, can't I persuade you to try a few?"

Mrs. Anstey, thoroughly understanding the look of appeal which Barry's laughing eyes held, smiled very kindly.

"My dear boy, I never eat much tea, as you know—but still—if you'll prepare me one or two ... they really look so tempting...."

To her dying day Lady Martin would never forget that afternoon. There sat Mrs. Anstey, whom everyone knew to be related to half the "good" families of England, eating shrimps, shelled for her by Barry, with an air of enjoyment which was in itself an offence. There, too, was Miss Lynn, niece to an earl, doing likewise, being assisted in the mysteries of divorcing the creatures from their shells by the blowsy, florid young woman beside her, with whom she was soon on excellent terms. And there, also, was Barry Raymond, a young man for whom everyone had a good word, laughing and joking with his hostess as though they were old friends, while that same hostess lost her frightened look beneath his geniality and did the honours of the tea-tray very prettily.

Only Lady Martin and her daughter were out of it; and when she found that her cold looks and biting speeches made no impression on anyone—for even Fanny was at ease now with these delightful people—her ladyship could bear it no longer.

Rising abruptly, and cutting short a sentence of Toni's as though she heard nothing, Lady Martin called her daughter to her side.

"I think, Lucretia, if you have finished your tea"—both ladies had left their cups untouched—"we must tear ourselves away. We promised to look in at the Vicarage, and you know we are dining with the Batty-Browns to-night!"

Having thus made it clear that she was in much social demand, Lady Martin advanced upon her hostess and held out her hand aggressively.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Rose. So glad to have seen you. I am always at home on Wednesdays in the summer."

Toni shook hands quietly, and Miss Martin followed suit with a limp handshake; after which the two ladies took what was intended to be a gushing farewell of the other guests, ignoring Fanny as though she were not present.

Andrews was in waiting to show the ladies out; and when, a moment later, they swept by the window, their high-heeled shoes crunching the gravel sternly, Barry heaved a sigh of relief.

"I don't know how it is, but Lady Martin always gives me the creeps. Mrs. Rose, is it too late to beg another cup of tea? I assure you I really want it, to buck me up."

Toni, who was very pale, filled his cup with rather a trembling hand, and Mrs. Anstey saw that the woman's insolence had unnerved her.

Appearing to notice nothing, she began to make conversation, discoursing gently on various unimportant topics until Toni grew more like herself; and when at length Mrs. Anstey rose to go she had completely won Toni's grateful heart.

Toni took leave of her visitors regretfully, and readily promised to return the visit as soon as possible; and then she and Fanny accompanied them to the door to see them comfortably settled in the big grey car.

Barry was driving, Olive sitting beside him; and the girl turned and waved a kindly hand as the car began to glide down the avenue in the afternoon sunshine.

"My! Isn't she pretty!" Miss Gibbs' admiration was sincere. "And that blue bonnet of hers was a dream—must have cost pounds!"

"I think Mrs. Anstey is beautiful," said Toni, rather dreamily, gazing after the car. "I don't wonder Miss Lynn is so devoted to her. She is just my ideal of a lady."

"Better than that other stuck-up cat," said Fanny rather viciously. "And as for that maypole of a daughter, she's nothing but a gawk."

"Oh, don't let's go in there!" Toni laid a hand on her cousin's arm as Fanny turned towards the dining-room. "I don't want to see the tea-table any more! Fan, wasn't it horrible when they came first?"

"Well, they were a bit sticky," said Fanny frankly. "But nobody seemed to care! Mr. Raymond was just making game of them all the time."

"Well, don't let's think of them," said Toni, shaking herself as though freeing her shoulders from an incubus. "We'll go on the river for an hour, Fan, and then you shall see the house."

The programme was carried out successfully, and beneath Fanny's affectionate chatter Toni regained the spirits she had lost. She took her cousin on the river, returning in time to see the old house before the summer darkness fell; and after a very satisfactory little dinner Miss Gibbs departed, highly pleased with her entertainment.

Owen was not to be home till nearly midnight, and Toni decided not to sit up. Indeed, she was tired, and it was barely ten o'clock when she went upstairs to bed. Something was troubling her, too; and as she walked slowly down the long gallery, lighted only by the Ten Little Ladies, she was asking herself a question which, in spite of its humorous form, held a hint of tragedy.

"Shall I have to tell Owen everything—how rude she was and what an idiot I felt? Must I really tell him about—about the shrimps?"

She paused, looking about her as though seeking an answer to her question, which held indeed a significance which she dimly understood.

But the Ten Little Ladies had no reply to give her; and with a sigh Toni passed on and entered her own room in silence.



CHAPTER X

Fairly late that night Barry Raymond jumped off his motorcycle at the gate of the bungalow known locally as the Hope House. It was a perfect June night, and as he unlatched the gate Barry heard a nightingale singing its love-song to the moon, the deliciously pure notes ringing across the river with a fascinating, almost unearthly, effect.

The garden of the bungalow was full of sleeping flowers, and their fragrance stole gently out like a tender welcome to Barry as he strode up the path between their ranks, pale-coloured in the moonlight, though full of rich, glowing colour beneath the sun.

Another welcome greeted him in a moment. There was a low, deep-toned bark, a white streak of something advancing in a hurtling flash, and then, as the great Borzoi discovered the visitor to be a friend, she dropped into a welcoming march, waving her plumy tail the while.

"Halloa, Olga, old girl! Where's your boss?"

He was not far off, having been warned of the approach of his friend, and in another moment the two men were shaking hands cordially.

"By Jove, Barry, it's good to see you again!" There was no mistaking the pleasure in the tone. "I thought you'd be looking me up—someone told me you were staying down here."

"Yes—only for three days, worse luck. I'm with the Ansteys—you know Miss Lynn is Mrs. Anstey's niece, and she is there too."

"I see. Well, come in and have a peg." He led the way hospitably through the green door into the bungalow, and a minute later the two were seated cosily in the little living-room, which looked oddly attractive in the lamplight.

Olga, the wolfhound, followed them in as a matter of course, and when her master had mixed drinks for himself and his visitor, and had taken his seat, she lay down beside him, her long nose resting on her paws, while she blinked sleepily in the mellow light.

"Well, Barry, how goes the world? Cheerily, eh?"

"With me? Yes." He took a pull at his glass, "I'm A 1, and so is Olive."

"Work going ahead? I hear the Bridge is making its way."

"Rather!" He spoke enthusiastically. "The next number will be out in a few days, and it's better than ever."

"Good! Of course Rose is an excellent man for the job. If he can't make it go, no one can. By the way, he's come to live down here, as I daresay you know."

"Yes." Barry spoke slowly, and lighted a cigarette rather thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact, Jim, that's partly why I've come to see you at this unholy hour."