Return of Simon

by CELINE CONWAY Simon Leigh's female relatives wanted him to marry and settle down at Craigwood, his family's old home. Why shouldn't he? Women seemed to like him — except Pat Gordon, his sister-inlaw's secretary. She and Simon managed to strike sparks from each other whenever they met. The interplay of two personalities antagonistic yet drawn together by a deep attraction that both were reluctant to acknowledge, makes a powerful and fascinating story.

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I note the reader Harlequin Books were first published in 1949, The original book was entitled "The Manatee" and was identified as Book No. 1 — since then over eighteen hundred titles have been published, each numbered in sequence. As readers are introduced to Harlequin Romances, very often they wish to obtain older titles. In the main, these books are sought by number, rather than necessarily by title or author. To supply this demand. Harlequin prints an assortment of "old" titles every year, and these are made available to all bookselling stores via special Harlequin Jamboree displays. As these books are exact reprints of the original Harlequin Romances, you may indeed find 'a few typographical errors, etc., because we apparently were not as careful in our younger days as we are now. None the less, we hope you enjoy'this "old" reprint, and we apologize for any errors you may find.

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Harlequin ^Kgmances by CEL1NE CONWAY 911—RETURN OF SIMON 934—MY DEAR COUSIN 965—CAME A STRANGER 996—PERCHANCE TO MARRY 1019—FLOWER OF THE MORNING 1046—THREE WOMEN

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TORONTO WINNIPEG

Originally published 50 Gmitoffl Wag".

Reprinted 1971 Reprinted 1972 Reprinted 1974 Reprinted 1975

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Mated Sa Canada

CHAPTER

ONE

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THIS was Pat's lucky day. It had started with the letter from her father in the morning; any communication from the cottage at Manbury always gave a fillip to her natural buoyancy. Then Mrs. Leigh had complimented her on, the neatness and accuracy of a report on an important meeting of one of the committees. Several members had remarked with envy that Miss Gordon must be phenomenally good. "I told them," Mrs. Leigh had declared, twinkling her blue eyes in her carefully made-up face, "that there's only one Patricia Gordon in London, and that none of them could bribe her away from me." "They certainly couldn't," Pat had agreed wholeheartedly. "I've never been so happy in my life as since I've lived here, in Cumberland Square." "And I should be completely lost without you!" Which, to Pat's mind, was an eminently satisfactory state of affairs. To be successful and contented in one's job at She age of twenty-two is something to be thankful for. Pat never thought back to the day when she had entered Mrs. Leigh's household without a sensation of sober gratitude. Following on the compliment from her employer had come the best surprise of all. Just before lunch-time the telephone had mng. She had picked up the receiver and heard Roy's voice. "Hello, my beautiful. This is your hero home again, How are you?" "Why, Roy!" she had exclaimed tritely, because excitement and pleasure had made her temporarily witless. "When did you get home?" "Yesterday afternoon. Couldn't phone you because the parents considered themselves entitled to my first evening. What about tonight — dinner and a show?" / "J'd love it." "Fine. I'll get tickets. A musical or drama?"' "If I said drama you'd choose a musical." "And if you said a musical I'd choose a musical. Am Ij allowed to call for you?" "Well, Mrs. Leigh ., ,°8

"I understand, my sweet. I'll meet you in tfae foyer aS Giulio's at six-thirty. Don't be late." As if she would be late for an appointment with Roy! Pat had sat back in her comfortably upholstered chair and thought how grand it would be to see him again. Though to be sure the two months since he had gone off on a tour of his father's chain of department stores had winged away. But his gaiety was so infectious. Roy had no room at all for depression. Pat didn't care for his parents. Old Mr. Brandon measured everyone in terms of their worldly success. He had a glowering sort of face and seemed to be afraid that anyone who sought his acquaintance must have designs on his money. Mrs. Brandon, from whom Roy got his regular features and coloring, was of the type who refuse to relinquish their grip on youth. She was constantly in the social news and often referred to as one of the best-dressed women in England. In her opinion no girl existed who was good enough for her son. He was only twenty-six but already she had patterned a future for him as a bachelor gay. Pat rather thought his mother would, get her own way. Today, however, she was not concerned with Mr. and Mrs. Brandon. There was the evening to look forward to, and outside in the small circular garden, where a nurse or two wheeled immaculately-dressed children in baby carnages, tulips formed pale mauve pools in the vivid grass and the protecting limes were clothed in tender green. Even the tall, elegant houses of the Square had the dean, pleased look of spring. The pillared porticoes and wide, scrubbed steps were interspersed with deep windows which were curtained with tasselled net. Pat loved those veiled, shining faces in the sunshine, and even more she loved all the anonymous but familiar -people who used the steps. Here, in this backwater not far from Hyde Park, was one of those peaceful oases which are scattered about London. Not that Number Fifteen was always as peaceful as today. Mrs. Leigh was a busy woman, member of innumerable committees on social welfare and ever in demand as an oganizer and speaker. At this moment she was a few miles away, declaring open a bazaar in aid of

crippled children. Marion Leigh was forty-three and always smartly turned out. Her efficiency in business matters was staggering, yet she was entirely human and almost too generous with her wealth. It always seemed, to Pat as if a miracle had happened that day, eighteen months ago, when Mrs. Leigh had asked her to become her secretary in London. She had grown up knowing quite a bit about the Leighs, of course. The family had lived at Craigwood for generations, and at one time had owned most of the village of Manbury. Vaguely, she recalled the death of Marion's husband, and the general lamentation that he had left no children. There had been a spate of conjecture about someone called Simon, who spent his time poking around the South Sea islands and the Far East, but for five years Craigwood had been virtually without a master, though Mrs. Leigh took an interest in the place and invited a party down for summer holidays and Christmas. It had never occurred to Pat that she would ever leave Manbury, that lovely straggle of cottages and church and winding main street on the border between Devon and Cornwall. Her mother had died while she was still at school, and as she acquired years and culinary knowledge she had naturally taken on the housekeeping in the rambling stone cottage with the garden that. was her father's pride. At the age of eighteen she had entered the office of the local solicitor, and doubtless she would still have been typing long-winded letters and documents for a small salary had not Mrs. Leigh come in one day and taken a fancy to the slim girl with soft grey eyes and a head of wavy russet hair. It had all been arranged so swiftly. Pat had been loath to leave her father, but his vehement assurance that he could get along without her, coupled with his decision to invite an unmarried colleague to share his home, and the plump Mrs. Moss to cook and dean for them, had clinched the matter. Patricia Gordon had travelled up to London and become installed as private secretary to Mrs. Marion Leigh. Two rooms in the-house were indisputably Pat's: her own large bedroom and this room above the lounge overlooking the Square. Her desk was a wide mahogany affairits eight drawers had heavy brass handles and locks that

worked. Her typewriter was streamlined and noiseless, and the same could be said of the filing cabinet against the wall. The opposite wall was partly obscured by a carved bookcase. There was a divan covered in maroon linen, a large sheepskin rug upon the maroon carpet, and in one comer a herringbone-brick fireplace from which, at this moment, glowed a small electric fire. Pat finished the letters and typed the envelopes. As was his habit at four-thirty on weekdays, Parker, the old manservant, brought a tea tray. "Beautiful weather. Miss Gordon." "Perfect," she said. "The sunshine will ease Mrs, Parker's rheumatism." "I hope so. She's walking better already. Seeing tha£ Mrs. Leigh won't be back for dinner, we were wondering if it would be all right to go to my sister's at about half° past five. It's such a long time since the wife last went out." Pat considered. "I don't see why you shouldn't go. Edna will be in, won't she?" "She's had the afternoon off, but she'll beAack soon." "Go ahead, then. I'm going out myself. I'll post the letters." Parker protested. Miss Gordon was pretty and full of S'rit, and she had an obliging way with her of which he liked taking advantage. "I'll come up for them later," he said. "Very well, I'll leave them on the desk. Haw a, good time, both of you." Pat drank her tea, read the letters through and signed them for Mrs. Leigh. She dropped the cover over the typewriter, bent to take a luxurious sniff at the little round bowl of violets, and decided to have a bath. The long upper corridor was thickly carpeted and gently lit by a window at each end. Pat went along it to turn on the bath taps, and then came out and into her bedroom next door. A snug bedroom, in spite of its size. The furniture was old and solid, gleaming from many years of polish, but the curtains, bed-cover and carpet were pale gold, with unexpected touches of turquoise. The two armchairs were

chintz-covered, and! both standard and bedside lamps flaunted hand-painted peacocks. Pat got out of her frock and into a bathrobe. Every. thing had turned out just right. Mrs. Leigh would not be back before ten tonight. No single obstade threatened the glorious few hours she would have with Roy. It must have been about a year since Roy Brandon had first breezed into Pat's life. She couldn't recollect just how it had occurred, but he had straightway formed the habit of telephoning her every week or so and suggesting a spree. She liked him, and the feeling of freedom and happiness when they were together was something which she never quite achieved with anyone else. Yet she could not honestly state that she had missed him during the last two months. Which was all to the good, surely! She took a long time over the bath, and it was moving up to six before she got into the new black suit and beige chiffon blouse. Dinner and the theatre with Roy probably meant cocktails at one place, dinner at another and an hour at a cabaret when the show was over. He never bothered with evening dress, which was just as well. Pat had found that a suit stood the racket of an outing with Roy better than anything else. She was using a light rub of lipstick when the doorbell rang. The caller was no doubt a messenger from one of the vast number of Mrs. Leigh's associates. Edna would deal with him. The black suede bag was the next item. Her fingets delved to make sure that it held her compact, a handkerchief and some money. And now her hat. It perched jauntily, a shaped scrap of black silk around which the pale hair curled most effectively. Holding bag and gloves, she switched off the light and came into the corridor, to confront the hurriedly approaching Edna. The maid was young and not fully trained. She looked scared and pink. "Oh, miss, thank goodness you haven't gone. There's a gentleman asking for Mrs. Leigh. I told him she was out to dinner and what do you think he said? He said, 'I'll wait for her. Cook me a nice big plateful of ham and eggs.' I was that frightened, miss, I came running straight up to yofflo" • . . B .o

"Ham and eggs." Pat repeated the delightful combination of words. "How very odd. Have you ever seen him before?" "Never m my life." "Did he give his name?" "I didn't wait to ask him." "You left him in the hall?" "No, miss. The minute I opened the door he walked in, dropped his hat on the hall table and went into the lounge. He even took a dgarette from one of the boxes." This was too much. A stranger striding into the house at six o'dock and demanding ham and eggs! Such things didn't happen. This man would have to be handled carefully and qaiddy, so that she could call her taxi and be off. "I'll see him, Edna," she said firmly, and walked along She landing to run down the wide staircase. She crossed the square hall to the open doorway of the lounge. There he was at the massive marble fireplace, one of Mrs. Leigh's treasured porcelain figures between his hands, his sleek darkish head critically on one side. He looked up and saw her, indolently replaced the ornament and gave her a faint nod of greeting. His glance was curious, but impersonal. "Good eroding," he said. "Who are you?" Pat thought rather addly that that was her question, not his. "I'm Mrs. Leigh's secretary," she answered coolly. "What can I do for you?" "So Marion has a secretary. She was always busy, and I acpect she keeps you at it, too. Do you know where she is?" "The maid has already told you that she's out to dinner." "Quite," he said patiently, "but a good secretary can always trace the boss. Can you get her on the telephone for me?" "I expect so."' But Pat did not move at once. As well as his manner, which was half amused and took too much for granted, she also disliked his looks. Those high cheekbones, and the the skin stretched tightly over the framework of his face, his queer-colored eyes, neither brown nor green nor hazel, and the hard cleft chin, belonged to a difficult and determined personality. But he obviously knew Mrs. Leigh,

and Pat hadn't time for naany details. She turned towards the hall. "I'll try to get her for you. What name shall I say?" "Simon. Simon Leigh." Pat halted and stared at him. Simon! The man who had poked about the South Seas when he should have been looking after Craigwood. No wonder she had felt a spoo° taneous antipathy for him. "Something wrong?" he enquired politely. She shook her head. "I'll put through the call.1" She dialled, exchanged pleasantries with someone, and asked to speak to Mrs. Leigh. The light, clear voice came through, "Mrs. Leigh, this is Pat. Sorry to trouble you, but there's a man here, a relative of yours, I think. His name is Simon Leigh." There was a crackling moment, ended by a sharp drawn breath. "Pat, that can't be true! He must be an impostor. What does he look like?" "Well . . . he's about thirty-eight, very tall and on the dark side ... he has a darkish tan, and a cynical mouth." Suddenly aware that he had come out of the lounge and was somewhere at her back. Pot finished hastily. "Will you have a word with him?" "My dear, I've been dying to have a word with him foe over five years. Put him on!" Silently, Pat handed over the receiver. He took it with an agreeable nod, and leaned negligently against the ornate scroll of the baluster. "Well, well, Marion. I got in from Paris about an hour ago. Yes, I have taken my time, haven't I, but I'm free now for a few months. . . . No, I've fixed up at an hotel for tonight." His voice deepened slightly. "What about you, Marion? I was too far away to do any good, but I knew you had lots of sense and wouldn't grieve any more than you could help. . . . Yes. All right, come along as soon as you can. . . . Not tired, but damned hungry. I had no time for lunch" He held out the telephone to Pafc "She wants another talk with you." Pat cast a desperate glance at her watch. Six-twenty, and she hadn't even ordered a cab. "Hello, Mrs. Leigh," she said automatically,

"Pat, it really is Simon! I can't believe it. He's my brother-in-law, Richard's brother. There were only the two of them. Listen, my dear, I can't get away till after dinner without affronting these people, but I'll try to slide out at about eight-thirty. Stay with Simon, will you, and see that Parker fixes him a good meal. You weren't going out, were you?" "Well ... yes, I was." "Oh, dear. With the Blakes?" "No, with Roy Brandon." "That man! Is he loose again? I can't see what you like about him . . . and that mother of his! Put him off, there's a dear. You'll find Simon a thousand times more interesting. Be nice to him. Pat. I'm very fond of him, and he's all I have." My lucky day, thought Pat, her grey eyes no longer soft, but glinting with annoyance as they rested on the carelessly lounging figure of Simon Leigh. It was too late to ring up Roy's home, yet almost certainly he would not have arrived at Giulio's. Her only course was to leave a message there for him. He'd be furious, probably wouldn't get in touch with her again for weeks. She accomplished the call to Giulo's, hoping, with some venom, that this beastly long-limbed man who could not help but overhear would be decently ashamed of depriving her of an evening's enjoyment. The receiver fell back into place with a decisive dick. "By the way," he said casually, "I'm thirty-five, not thirty-eight." As if it mattered what age he was! Pat pulled off her hat and dropped it alongside her bag and gloves on the table. "The servants are out," she said stiffly, "except the maid you saw. I'll get her to prepare some food." "Thanks. Could you find me some more cigarettes This box is empty." "There are some over there in the crystal box on the coffee table. There are magazines in the left-hand cupboard of the radiogram and drinks in the cabinet. Will you help yourself?" With a hint of mockery he said, "Nothing would give me greater pleasure. May I pour a. sherry for you?" 14

"No thank Tora"jrUlAo <-'
had charge of the estate. It made money, but the bulk of the Leigh fortune was inherited. Having allowed Simon plenty of time. Pat carried the coffee tray to the lounge. He got up, crossed the room with a lithe yet lazy stride and relieved her of the burden. He placed the tray on the low table in front of the fire and pulled up her chair. The food was excellent," he said, as he hitched his trousers to take the chair opposite. "Apparently you know how to get things done around here." "Black or white coffee?"' "Black, please. No sugar." She accepted a cigarette and a light, noticed that his hands as he held the match were long-fingered and strong, and that there were short golden hairs along the backs. He gave her a one-sided, sardonic smile. "Have you forgiven me?" "For what?" she asked distantly. ^ "For breaking the date you were so prettily got up for. "I work here," she said briefly. "And tonight I was part of your job? One of the less pleasant duties, I take it." He reached over to another table for an ashtray. "My conscience ought to have smitten me but I'm afraid it didn't. When you've lived at I have for the past few years you're apt to feel entitled to all the good things that are going — for a while, at any rate. I felt I had more right to feminine society this evening than your Mr. Roy Brandon." Pat forbore to make the obvious retort. Nothing obvious would ever impress this man. She drank her coffee and . smoked for a minute. "Have you been to Manbury lately?" he queried. "I was there at Easter, but not at Craigwood." "No?" Again that curious, withdrawn glance. "Do you come from those parts?" "I was born in the village." "Oh." Reserve flattened his tones. "Then you've doubtless heard all the tattle, or perhaps you were a little young when I left. He shrugged off the matter. "How was it looking down there?" I "Very much as it usually does in early spring. The hedges were full of primroses and the beeches were out."

"Don's you ever go to Craigwood ?°° "I spent Christmas there." "Christmas." His voice reminisced, but the thinnish mouiA was sarcastic. "Holly and turkey and plum pudding, mistletoe and kisses all round. I was in Borneo on Christmas Day." "And you intend to be just as far away from Craigwood next Christmas," she said briefly. His look at her was narrow and speculative. "You're quick, aren't you? But you happen to be right. My job sees to it that I'm never in one place for long." He squashed out his cigarette. "Craigwood is well managed. I'm not needed there." "Mrs. Leigh won't agree with you.'" "She'll have to," he said with an air of finality, and leaned back to switch on the radio. Now there was no need to talk. Pat suspected that he had twisted the knobs for that reason. Music flowed out, plain dance tunes without a crooner. She thought of Craigwood, the patina of winter sunshine upon the old stone walls, the huge hall with its two fireplaces, the gracious rooms, the gardens, the lichened trees. No, this man did not belong there. He was nothing like the country squire his brother had been. Whatever was said to the contrary, people did like the owners of estates to act the part. Simon was too arrogant, too superdlious to settle into Craigwood and make the place his own. Presently she rang the belL Edna collected the trays, and had just departed when the hall dock chimed three-quarters, indicating that it was a quarter to nine. Then the front door was opened, and dosed with a thud. Pat sprang up. "This will be Mrs. Leigh," she said with relief. Marion came in quickly and stood stock still in the doorway. Simon went over and took her hands, looked down into her misty eyes. "It's so good to see you," she said quietly. "And to see you, my dear." "Where have you travelled from?" "Singapore was my last place. I did the final trip by air, in stages. Come and sit down." 17

Marion Leigh smiled at Pat. "I've lenown Simon for years — ever since I married his brother, when I was almost as young and good to look at as you are." "You're no less lovely'" he said. "Only mellov/er." 'That's sweet, however untrue. You still turn a pretty compliment, Simon." She had sat in the chair Pat had vacated and slipped bac the coat which had covered her blue cocktail suit. Pat said, "I've things to do, and then I shall go to bed. Excuse me?" "Of course," said Marion. "It was nice of you to give up your evening with Roy, but I was right about Simon, wasn't I ? Roy's only a boy in comparison." "I've a notion," remarked Simon drily, preceding Pat to the door and bowing as she reached it, "that your admirable secretary prefers the boyish male. No doubt they're more relaxing." Pat did not pause to parity that one. She said good night, emerged into the hall and shut the door behind her. She was famished. In the kitchen, Parker and his wife were listening to Edna's recital of 'the events of the evening. As Pat's presence became known the chatter died, but Parker was frowning gravely. "Sorry I let you in for that. Miss Gordon." "I didn't mind," she said. "Mrs. Leigh has arrived and they're talking. Perhaps you'd better take them tea and sandwiches in about half an hour." ^, Mrs. Parker bent forward from her deep chair. "Miss Gordon, is it Mr. Simon?" "Yes. Do you know him?" ' "He used to come here years ago, but he liked the country best. Always said there was no place like Craigwood." Pat was friendly with the servants but she never gossiped with them. This item of news was intriguing, however. If Simon was so fond of Craigwood, why hadn't he been neae the place for so long?'* "I believe he's only in England 'for a visit," she said. "I didn't get any dinner. Make a few extra sandwiches and send them up, will you, Parker?" Deeply shocked, he promised to see to it at once.

In her bedroom. Pat hung away the black suit and pat on a dressing-gown. Snuggled in a chintz chair with hee feet drawn under her, she ate the savories and drank two cups of the tea which Edna had brought. The book she had chosen was so absorbing that it was well after eleven when she yawned and got ready for bed. She drew back the curtains to breathe the sharp night air. This window overlooked the small back garden. Down there, the rectangular light from the kitchen window fell across the tiny lawn. The two old oaks fluttered their new leaves in the breeze, and the sky was black and mazed with stars. This was a wonderful season, this period before the full flush of summer. Pat had forgotten aU about Simon Leigh. CHAPTER TWO THE next day was a tiring one both for Mrs. Leigh and her secretary. The mail was heavy and not easy to handle, there were two meetings in the lounge and an endless flow of callers. A friend sent along a brilliant young man who wished to be a doctor but could not afford the training. Pat had to be present at his interview with Mrs. Leigh, and once again she admired the older woman's grasp of the essentials to a profession. The student went away with a cheque in his pocket and in his heart a determination t® work hard and justify Mrs. Leigh's confidence in him. "Over a late tea an unofficial business women's conference developed and expanded into a hot and exhausting debate. Pat had to escape upstairs and get on with the derical side of her work. She had statistics to copy and letters to The evening had douded and a few drops of rain threaded down the window. One by one the women downstairs departed. Pat saw or heard their cars glide away from the curb below and twist from the quietude of the Square into a stream of traffic. She had intended to take a walk before dinner, but by the time Parker had collected the letters and she had deared up it was seven-thirty. Then Mrs. Leigh poked hee head round the doo&,

"•Still here. Pat? What a day it's been! Thank heaven we're to be alone for dinner." She subsided into the divan, a tall, slim woman in a frock of fine tweed. Her features were longish but good and, except at the temples, her hair had kept its golden tones. No one would have described Marion Leigh as a tragic figure, yet she had'borne more than her share of bereavement and disappointment. Two things had pulled her through: her belief in herself as an individual and her ceaseless regard for others. Sometimes Pat thought Mrs. Leigh did too much. Tonight, for instance, there were tired lines at the comers of her eyes, though, as usual, her mouth smiled. "If half the energy spent in talk were diverted to action," Marion said, "what a heap we'd get done. I liked that boy — didn't you?" "The potential doctor? Yes. He had surgeon's hands and a one-track mind." "I noticed that, too. You're becoming a student of human nature. Pat.'8 She paused. "You weigh up people fairly soon. Tell me what you thought about Simon." Pat tamed her chair to face the divan and sat down. Marion's expression was serious now, even a little anxious. "I don't know," Pat said. "I'm afraid my idea of him was tinged with what I'd heard about him." "Didn't you take to him?" ; "I hardly had a chance, and he certainly didn't want me, ' to. He was offhand and rather sarcastic." "He has hardened," Marion admitted with a sigh, "though he was, always aloof and self-sufficient. As a youth he was unapproachable, but over the years I managed to wear him down and we became dose friends. He was still a schoolboy when his parents died, 'chough Richard was twdve years his senior. You couldn't have found two brothers who differed more from each other, but there was never a quarrel between them." Musingly, she added, "I suppose Richard was really the weaker' character; he invariably had to give in to Simon." "To give in to someone who is determined to have his own way isn't always weakness; it's often diplomacy." 9(t

Marion gave a small laugh. "I like getting your slanfi oa things, Pat; it's so fresh and often slightly rustic. I expoS you've wondered why I've never spoken of Simon?" "He's been somewhat remote, hasn't he?" "And a sore spot, too. I felt he ought to have come bads and taken over the estate. It needs a man. I wrote to him in all sorts of places and I daresay most of my letters missed him, but some he replied to — very briefly, and always to the effect that his job was important, and he'd nevee be able to vegetate at Craigwood." "He mentioned something about his job to me. What is it?" "Intelligence. He was in it during the war. Then he came back to Craigwood and lived with us. Our hopes ran high because there was a girl, too." Marion's voice lowered, as voices do when the thoughts tarn inward, and she stared pensively at the fire which had been switched down to send out one bar of heat. "It hurt me so much that Richard and I hadn't any children, and when it looked as if Simon would marry and settle in the district we were happy and relieved. I've never got to the bottom of what it was that broke everything up. Simon was asked to do under-cover work in the Par East, and instead of refusing, as he'd almost promised us he would, he agreed to go. Apparently he'd proposed to Elise and she'd tamed him down." "So that was the kernel of the Manbury gossip?" Marion lifted her shoulders. "Villages adore such morsels, but the people would love to have him back. Shortly after he'd gone, Elise married Max Bristow, of Dolbridge." Pat dimly remembered Max Bristow: a wide-shouldered, tough man who bred horses. Dolbridge was an old and ugly country house situated halfway between Manbury and the coast, a house which would easily have fitted into one wing of Craigwood. Try as she might, it was impos° sible to recall Elise Bristow. "All that was six years ago?" she asked. Marion nodded. "Nearly six years. Fortunately, Richard's last illness was short. He did beg me to get in touch with Simon, but everything seemed to be over in one terrible night. Several months passed before Simon got the letters and cables, and by then the bailiff had been engaged and I'd come to London." Marion sighed again, more pro-

foundly but with a tinge of exasperation. "I talked to Simon for two hours last night. I'm sure he's nearly forgotten the affair with Elise; in fact, I'm fairly certain there must have been other women since then — all that time m the tropics! But he's never met another that he wants to marry, and I'm horribly afraid that until he does, Craig. wood is out." It was quite dark outside. The reading lamp beside the divan lit the room softly and warmly, and the violets still exuded a trace of fragrance. Pat was weary and^ needing her bath; she didn't'see that there was much\to do about a man like Simon Leigh. But Marion had become more alert. She bent forward to lend emphasis to her words. "He's free till September. He refuses to stay with us in this house, and quite apart from the propriety of the thing I can't say I blame him. He'd detest the sort of visitors we have and the never-ending conclaves. He's agreed to go to Craigwood for a week or two before he leaves, but that's all. Today he's moving into a furnished flat. But we have four months. Somehow we must make him stay in England!" Pat could hardly see Simon Leigh being made to do anyfiling against his will. She felt sorry for Mrs. Leigh, who loved Craigwood and would always be convinced that she had failed as Richard's wife because she had no son. She would have liked her to get her own way with Simon for , other reasons, too. Everyone in the Manbury district would be overjoyed to have a Leigh in residence again. About Simon himself she was not very dear. If he was staying in London rather than at Craigwood, wouldn't it mean that he was not too sure of himself? Wasn't he trying to avoid the pull of the ancestral home? Which led to a further question.'How seriously had he been wounded by the woman who was now Elise Bristow? "We'll have to conspire in this, Pat," Marion was saying urgently, "and at all costs we must avoid dumsiness. You can't hoodwink Simon. Perhaps we can ensure that he meets plenty of the right type of women, and we'll have our holiday at Craigwood in July instead of August — he said he'd prefer to go down while I'm there. And, Pat... She smiled tolerantly. "Last night I gathered that you and he were not exactly pleased with each other. I know it was 22

his fault, but he'll be horrid to you if you continually challenge him, and I couldn't bear it if you two were enemies. The trouble is, he doesn't like effident women." "Except you." "I'm a trifle too old to matter that way," she said with humor. "He fell for Elise because she was the helpless sort." The tartness which Simon had drawn from her yesterday edged Pat's tones. "Maybe she didn't have to earn a living." "Earning a living hasn't detracted an iota from your nice" ness. That's why 1 so enjoy having you live here." With studied casualness, she finished, "You're one of us. Try to regard Simon as a sort of cousin. Fight with him, if you like, but do it good-humoredly. Don't forget — we're going to make him settle at Craigwood!" Pat didn't answer. This was the first time Mrs. Leigh had spoken so intimately and it had brought an unaccustomed roughness to her throat. In an inward flash she realized how close she had come to this woman who employed her. And with a pang it smote her'-that Marion Leigh, the wealthy widow who dressed superbly and was tremendously in demand as a speaker, organizer and benefactor was really a lonely woman. Years ago she had given her heart to Craigwood, and desperately, beneath that veneer of calm sophistication, she now desired that the beautiful old estate should come alive under Simon Leigh, "Is it a bargain?" Marion queried quietly. Pat took a deep breath and smiled. "We can do our best, can't we?" "Good." The older woman stood up. "Let's go down and toast it. It's going to be a rocky road, my dear, but with a modicum of luck we'll make it!" Pat felt less confident. She was remembering Simon's unyielding mouth and eyes, 'the cold-blooded carelessness with which he had accepted her company, knowing darned well that she would rather have been elsewhere. What chance had two women against such deliberate im° jperviousness? •S

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It was at the beginning of the following week that Simon eaeae again to the house in Cumberland Square. Breakfast

was over and Pat was stacking the mail into a wire basket on the hall table when the doorbell whirred. She pulled wide the door and there he was, wearing a navy, pin-striped suit which detracted from his tan and odd, cold smile. "Good morning" he said pleasantly as he entered and dosed the door. "Don't you mind this chilly weather?" "It's a beautiful morning," she said. "Mis. Leigh is in (he drawing-room." He nodded at the loaded basket she held. "Where are you going with that?" "Upstairs, to my office." "TO carry it for you." ' "I mange it every other day." "The more reason why you should have a rest from it today. Never acquire too' many habits. Monotony dries up the soul — didn't you know that?" By this time they were mounting the staircase, side by side. "How did you discover it?" asked Pat. He laughed briefly. "I suppose you think my life has been » round of changing sights and worldly joys. In a way it has, but there have been intervals when I've had to live for months a hundred miles from the nearest white folk m a house on stilts above the swamps — and on a diet of rice and salt Ssh into the bargain." He paused in the corridor. "Which mom?" She led the way and indicated the desk. The sun slanted across it, warming the bowl of dusty-pink primulas. .He set down the basket and cast a glance around at the bookshelves, the light walls. Then he looked out through the window as the square. "Don't you get tired of tne view?" "No. I like the old and familiar," she said. "I'm not normally a restless person, though like everyone else I; 'have my uneasy moments." "You had one the night I arrived," he told her with a tight grin. "Yes, but I soon got over it. Bearing a gmdge is an awful nuisance." His eyes narrowed at her, critically. "Marion tells me yoa're am excellent secretary. Does she take all your time?"

"Of course not. I have quite a bit of leisure." But she did hope he wasn't going to invite her to go out with him. But business was in his thoughts. "Will you do some work for me?" She hesitated. "I'd rather you put it to Mrs. Leigh first." "You will if she consents?" "I suppose so." "But you're not very eager."' "I've said I'll do'it." "All right," he said, and, unexpectedly went from the room. '. Pat lifted her shoulders, and then, remembering that she was supposed to be nice to Simon and show him, .in a multitude'of small ways, how agreeable life could be in England, she became cross with herself. Slitting the envelopes and extracting their contents, she told herself that however difficult he might seem, it was her duty to do her best for Marion Leigh. She should have agreed at once to his request, pretended to be happy at the prospect of working for him. In fact, though, she was not at all anxious to oblige Simon; though admittedly bearing no grudge, she still recalled with chagrin the calm ruthlessness with which he had stolen her evening with Roy. The mail was less exacting today. Half of it Pat could reply to without consulting Mrs. Leigh, and she set about ' it at once, because one could never be certain that a day which began'at a pedestrian pace would not develop into a mad scij-amble against time. On and off the telephone rang, but she was accustomed to dealing with it while she worked. , At a quarter to eleven Edna brought her a cup of tea, and a few minutes after she had gone Mrs. Leigh -came in, followed by her brother-in-law. Marion came immediately to the point. "Pat, will you help Simon? I'm not quite sure what he wants of you, but he says it's confidential and he'd prefer to give the job to someone he can trust." j Pa't looked up at him, met a faintly mocking smile and looked away. "I'm honored to be trusted by Mr. Leigh. I'll do what I can." "Good," said Marion. "Sunon, take a chair while I go ^through the letters with Pat, and after that you and she

can arrange whatever you like. I won't bother either of you for the rest of the day." Pat tamed back to the desk and pulled forward her pad. In the pauses between Mrs. Leigh's dictation she heard Simon stretch his long legs, get up and go to the bookcase, scrape a match to light a cigarette. He might have asked permission before smoking, but he was probably so used to pleasing himself that it hadn't occurred to him. It bothered her having him there; his alien presence robbed the room of cosiness, put a prickle into the atmosphere. He ought to have waited downstairs. , •That's about the lot," said Marion at last. "Sign them for me will you — all except the one to the bank. I'll be lunching at the dub and going on to the business women s conference. If you want me after four I'll probably be with the cottage hospital'secretary." She had a word with Simon and went smartly out and down the stairs. He stood up and let out a short, sharp sigh. 'Ron't yon ever tell Marion that she's wearing herself out? "I save her trouble where I can, but she has heaps of energy. She's perfectly happy in the life she's chosen. A lazy pace or two brought him to the side of the desfc "What about you — would that kind of life satisfy you? "It might, if my drcumstances were similar to Mrs.

'•^Women are peculiar creatures," he said. "They put themselves through a lot of unnecessary suffering.' He got out his cigarette-case but left it dosed. "Did you know my brother — Richard?" "I knew him as the village folk knew him. I never spoke

"He was a great chap. He and Marion were the bestmatched couple I've ever had contact with. Apart from being in love they shared the same sense of humor, the same simple, uncomplicated slant on life. He wa5 never physically strong, but he managed to be happy _ There was a moment during which he appeared mdmed to say more, but soon it was gone. , "The happiest people are those who have simplicity an directness as an integral part of their nature," said Pafc

"My father is like that, too. He's the senior master at Manbury School." He dug his hands into his pockets, let his dark gaze rest appraisingly on the short, tawny curls, the deep grey eyes. 'You're different," he said. "Direct, but not entirely simple." ' "And you're neither," she stated, and, not too pleased by the personal trend of the conversation, she added, "what exactly is this work you would like me to do?" He smiled briefly, with a tinge of irony. "Ah, yes, the work. There's safety in work, isn't there?" He hitched his trousers and sat in the chair which Marion had used. From an inside pocket he drew a worn and plump diary. "I have five of these filled with notes. They have nothing to do with my own job — I carry that sort of information in my head; in fact, I've already reported it all verbally and can forget it. This staff" — he tapped the diary — "was collected for a Coral Sea trading corporation who have a head office in London. I want to give them a full typed report." " Pat regarded the small book apprehensively, took it gingerly between her hands as if afraid that by touching it she were committing herself. "Your writing is frightful." "It was mostly written on the deck of a tramp steamer, between islands. All the names of places and people are in block capitals." She looked at him curiously. "If this isn't your particular line of business, why did you do it?" He shrugged. "My line of business, as you call it, would hardly yield results if it were advertised. This was my cover — and an interesting one, too. Ever leam anything about Qae Coral Sea?" "Not much." "Well, you'll know plenty about it when this report is finished. How do you want to tackle it?" Pat considered. The diary lay open on the desk, narrow lines packed with a smallish, heavy script in pencil. No doubt she would become accustomed to the writing and soon be able to dedpher quickly. "I believe it would be best if you let me have the not®. books one by one. I'll type the notes and leave you plenty •>7

rf space to cmect and fill out. Finally, I shall make the ,P 0

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In the disconcerting way he had, he tacked on an agreeable "So long," and walked out. Just as if, thought Pat, that strange, guarded personality had dosed right up against her. But as she continued with her duties Simon slid from her mind. Today she was lunching out with the Cartwrights, and tonight, with luck, she would attend a concert with the same charming couple.'

CHAPTER THREEIT was not till the following evening that Pat got busy on Simon's diary, and she was plunged straight away into a world fantastically warm and mysterious. The Coral Sea company of which he had spoken apparently owned trading stations throughout the hundreds of exotic islands, and he had systematically visited them, weighed up the character of each agent and made recommendations. Reading the words which had been scribbled in those languorous seas between one coral outcrop and the next, Pat could see Simon very dearly. In khaki drill with a helmet tipped over his eyes against the tropic sun, his mouth straight and secretive, his skin a shade or two darker than it was at the moment. Elusive and enigmatic, scornful of people who dung, frightened, to the fringes of civilization. Try as she might, it was impossible to visualize him at Craigwood. The great house might hold memories of his boyhood with Richard; fleetingly he might recapture some of the affection he must have had for the place. But Pat was quite sure that the Simon Leigh who had returned from the South Seas and the war-torn Far East was an entirely different being from the man who had set out a few years ago. That younger man had been passionately in love; (he present Simon had an element of granite in his nature which discounted human relationships. Pat was pretty sure he would never be in love again. To Marion, she voiced some of these conjectures. "I know what you mean," Marion said. "You get the impression that nothing, no one, could hurt or delight him; Up to a point that's true, I think. Outwardly he was always 50

invulnerable, bat I rather thought his was the sort of im° perviousness which is assumed by certain men who are capable of deep emotions — a doak." Marion gave that exasperated sigh. "Time's flitting by, and we'll never get dose to him in London." "Possibly not,, but he isn't ready for Craigwood yet." "How can you tell?" "I suppose from these notes of his. Only a fortnight ago he was in Singapore, and I can't imagine a greater contrast to the Far East as it is today than Manbury. You'll have to give him time." "But the weeks pass so quickly, and that office of his may send him somewhere else and we'll lose sight of him for years again." Marion laughed and held up crossed fingers. "We'll hope," she said, "and help hope along with a persuasive word now and then. By the way, we're both invited to his flat for dinner on Friday. He's roped in a retired rear-admiral, or something, to make up the number." "But why me?" demanded Pat bluntly. She never wen£ out with Marion except on business. "Why not you?" countered the other woman calmly. "If he's needing the companionship of someone young and feminine, let him have it!" The topic of Simon was one which quickly became tiring — not boring, but mentally wearing in its frustration. Pai was glad to put it away for a while. That Roy should telephone on Friday was almost inevitable. Foolishly, she was beginning to connect Simon with Roy, to regard the first as a blight on her friendship with the latter. Fortunately, this time she was prepared, "So sorry, Roy, I have a duty date tonight." "And I'm fixed up for the week-end," he groaned. "It'1 have to be lunch today at Giulio's. Meet you there at one?" It was arranged. Very cautiously, Pat began to, hum to herself ''as she slipped Simon's notebook, and a batch of typed sheets into a large manilla envelope and set it aside till evening. She put on the black suit with a pink chiffon blouse and planted the black silk cap at its most becoming angle above her brow. Roy was waiting in the tiny entrance to Giulio's. Tall an teren-featureds, with halt the brown-gold of ripe corn and

light brown eyes which had a smile imprisoned in their depths, he had an air of lively and insatiable anticipation. He had never really worked in his life. Occasionally he sat in an office adjacent to his father's and he had travelled round the Brandon department stores, spending a week here and a week there, but his role in life seemed to be that of a decorative spectator. He took part in the world's fun, but graver issues, he was wont to say, were for graver men. "Pat, my sweet, you look wonderful," he exclaimed, regardless of the large, uniformed doorman and others arriving for lunch. "If you hadn't turned up I'd have stormed your castle — in spite of Mrs. Leigh. Do you realize I haven't seen you for more than two months? Two long, heart-wrenching months!" It was all very extravagant, but also very pleasant. Roy was one of those men who seem to have acquired early in life a special look in the eyes, a perpetual endearment on the lips, but he was less dangerous than some because danger mostly lurks in the unknown, and Roy was transparent as well water. They were seated at a table for two near a beautifullypainted wall, were served with wine and food. A quartet played; young musicians wearing sky-blue slacks and white silk shirts. Talk and muted chatter competed with a popular Hungarian dance. "Tell me how you've been getting on," he said. "Aren't you tired of working for Mrs. Leigh?" "Of course not. I have a wonderful time." This brother-in-law of hers — the one who messed up our theatre date — what is he like?" "Lithe and hawk-like and vaguely unpleasant." The antithesis of me, in fact." He leaned towards her with both elbows on the table, his face young and imploring. "Pat, I want to ask you something. Can you go down with me to my aunt's place in Kent next week-end? She's just taken a huge old farmhouse and converted it into a blend of cuaint and modem and she's having a houseful of guests from Friday till Monday. She particularly requested that I should bring my best girl." Pat laughed. "Thanks. I'll talk to Mrs. Leigh-and phone you on Monday. If I can't make it you'll have to take along your second-best." »

"There isn't one," he said, as if he meant it. "Do your utmost, won't you? Darling, I'm longing to know you in the country. I'm sure that's where you really belong." Pat wondered if that last remark were sincere, and conduded that it had merely been part of a brief campaign of persuasion. She did belong to the country, though. London thrilled her and her job was interesting, but, part of her mind serenely looked forward to some distant day when her home would once more be away from town and not too far from the border between Devon and Cornwall. For the present it satisfied her to know that her father still lived in the cottage at Manbury. She allowed herself to be transported for a minute to the mellow garden full of old-fashioned flowers and herbs, to the wood where wild strawberries grew and to the rutted lane between the cornfields. She gathered cress from the running stream, ate new milky bread, saw white linen billowing on cottage dothes-lines, and children playing or dreaming in the fields. Then she was back in the sophisticated restaurant with Koy, and her former content with her lot was tinged with nostalgia. "I'll try very hard," she said. "I believe I do miss the country in the spring." From then on the lunch hour was Roy's. He was a good conversationalist of the lighter type, and not overburdened with ego. His descriptive powers, when it came to giving an account of his recent travels, were limited by his antipathy for the more drab aspect of existence, but he had some entertaining experiences in the north-country houses of his father's branch managers which he did not hesitate to embellish. After a while Pat regretfully but ostentatiously looked at her watch. "It's twenty past two. 1 must fly. It's been lovely seeing you, Roy." He did not move at once. Instead, he toother slim, pale wrist and tamed it about, so that the delicate blue veins inside it were visible. He raised it and bent his lips to touch it, and then looked up to meet her eyes. "Pat, wouldn't it be extraordinary if after all this time we were to fall in love — really, I mean."

" 'All this time' isn't £0 very long," she rallied him. "I don't think we need worry, Roy. There's, something that enters quite early into the friendship between two people who are intended for each other." "You're so deflating. Pat. I don't believe you want love to happen to you." "Oh, yes, I do. But when it does happen, I'll know it. I won't have to question myself, as you're doing. You're muddling affairs with the genuine thing." "But what is the genuine thing?" Pat had to ponder before she could answer this. "Well, it's all-embracing and irrevocable. I can't tell you how it steals up on one because it hasn't yet come my way." She took another peep at her watch. "You should have started this discussion half an hour ago. Fasdnating as it is, we'll have to leave it in the air." "We'll sift the matter next week-end at my aunt's," he promised with a grin, and got up to pull out her chair. Actually, Pat had few original ideas about loving and being loved. Having grown up rather dreamily in the country she had sometimes indulged in a flight of imagination in which she swung down an oak-shaded lane, her fingers entwined with brown, masculine one. A naive and 'callow conception of romance judged by the standards of the circle in which she now moved. Even the Cartwrights, who were accepted as an uncommonly happily-married couple, were not averse from a dig at each other in public. Pat always found herself wincing for the victim and becoming aware, rather ruefully, that her compassion was superfluous. Those barbed little jokes at the loved one's expense were apparently regarded as necessary to maintain their reputation as sophisticates. Pat abhorred artificialfty, and to her sophistication had an underlying note of insincerity. Of all the . women she knew, only Marion had the courage not to veneer her goodness with sham. That evening Pat wore a coral cocktail frock. She thought of the Coral Sea and hoped Simon would see no connection between the color and the scene of his late adventures. , Marion chose a sage green suit and a pearl choker. "Simon prefers women to dress well," she said. "At least, he used to. A tweed frock was always good enough for Richard at any hour of the day, but Simon's one of

Shose men who notice at once if one's attire isn't all it should be." "I'm glad he's no relative of -mine," Pat commented. "He'd be awfully difficult to live up to." "You'd manage it," came the confident reply. "I'm eontinually amazed at how well you've fitted in here." "That's because I like it." "And you don't like Simon?" One could be frank with Marion and know that an expression of opinion would not be held against one. "If you want people to like you, you have to be a little careful of their feelings. Mr. Leigh doesn't care what he says, and he sees himself as a bit of a martyr because he's had to do without the refinements of dvilization for some time. He harps on it." Marion laughed. "Why, that's wonderful! If that's the way he behaves with you you're getting results. Pat. Keep it up!" At a quarter to eight they went off in Marion's coupe. Simon's flat was one of. a new block in Bayswater, so the journey took no more than twenty minutes. While Marion drove Pat told her of the invitation down to Kent for the following week-end. She saw the well-shaped mouth compress a little, and was prepared for the other woman's first remark. "Roy Brandon! My dear, why do yoa waste your time en him? He isn't worth it." "Roy's all right," said Pat reasonably, "so long as you don't expect too much of him. He's not like some men one might mention. He's too forthright to philander." "Is he?" Marion sounded relieved, but still slightly irritated. "His mother boasts he'll never marry. I suppose you're aware of that?" 'Tes, but I'm beginning to think she may be proved wrong.'Roy's anxious to fall in love." "With you?" asked Marion quickly. "We don't gravitate towards each other as two people awakening to one another's charms are said to." "I hope you never will," said Marion firmly. "You souldn't be happy with anyone so airy." Pat had ao time to defend the absent Roy before the cas angled into a narrow courtyard in front of a high building

and Marion braked. Both women stepped out into the cool night and instinctively shrugged deeper into their collars. It was quite dark now, and the sky was clear and spattered with distant stars. Pat smelled an invisible lilac and was reminded that the white and mauve lilac trees which overhung the old walls surrounding Craigwood would now be drooping their profusions of blossom and scenting the lanes which lovers used at twilight. Soon the tall, shapely chestnuts near the house would sprout their pink and white candles. A purring lift carried them to the second floor, and a few paces along a thickly-carpeted corridor brought them to the door of the flat. Marion pressed a bell, within seconds the door was opened and there stood Simon, in a dark lounge suit, with his head suavely inclined and a hand outstretched to grasp Marion's elbow while he bent upon Pat an aloof smile of welcome. "I had a hunch you two would, be more or less on time," he said. "You always were, Marion, and Miss Gordon is much too efficient to be defeated by the clock; Come in and meet Ralph Sedgwick." With the almost imperceptible movements of a man entirely at ease, he had divested Marion of her fur wrap and' Pat of the short black coat, and hung both garments over the back of one of the carved walnut chairs. He indicated a door from the small hall' into a long grey and mulberry lounge. A man of medium height came forward. He had a head of grizzled crisp curls which had been decisively brushed, a pair of penetrating eyes v/hich had in them all the seas and blue distances of the globe, and a distinctly humorous mouth. The retired rear-admiral, of course. Pat had decided that he would be aged and testy, but Ralph Sedgwick was neither. He might'have been a year or two over fifty, but no more; and his expression was as bland -as good, thinnish features would permit. "Ralph and I first met about twelve years ago," Simon, having completed the introductions, was saying. "At that time I was making my first trip south. The last time I saw him was aboard a vessel in Indian waters. It was his final trip. He's been loose in London for nearly a year." 35

.

"And appallingly bored," the other admitted. "I can't make up my mind whether to go in for business or buy a ketch and run it- down to the Pacific." Marion nodded sympathetically. "There's nothing worse than finding yourself with too little to do and enough money to live on — particularly if you've led an active life. If I were you I'd buy the ketch." "Marion," Simon admonished her good-humoredly, "that advice is shockingly against ypur dearest principles. You've upset all I've told Ralph about you. He was looking forward to meeting a woman who admirably combines a love of home with a flair for helping other people. That rakish remark of yours has let us both down." He had them seated and was pouring cocktails. Pat took in the room; the excellent modern furnishings, the bookshelves displaying the backs of gay dust jackets. Just such a room Simon might have furnished himself, carefully' exduding all hint of personality. She remembered that the flat belonged to a diplomat now absent in the Middle East, and looking at these two men who had travelled almost everywhere she thought how exciting it was to come in contact with such people. They , opened a new, breathtaking vista to a girl who had never left the shores of England. Simon was patiently offering her a glass. When at length she took it, he got his/own drink and sat down beside her. "What's the matter with you this evening? Not hankering for the South Seas already, are you?" "Lord, no. I'll take those sorts of experiences vicariously. I've finished your first notebook, by the way. The whole lot is in the large envelope that I put on your hall table as we came in." "We'll take a look at it after dinner," he said. "Was it difficult?" "At first, but your writing is like a taste for oysters—it improves with practice." He dismissed this with a shrug. "You arrived looking soulful—you still have remote depths in your eyes. What, in the whole of London, could cause that in such as you?" "Maybe it wasn't London," she said mischievously. "I could have been Craigwood." ;'

"Craigwood!" he echoed quiedy birt sharply. "Were you and Marion talking about the place on your way here?" "No," she answered sweetly and with a trace of malice in having slightly roused him. "For a second, in the courtyard below, I got a most heavenly whiff of lilac, and I thought of those weighty blossoms which blow in the wind over the Craigwood walls; remember them? And after that I thought of the chestnuts near the house, and the willows down by the stone bridge where my father occasionally goes fishing—he has the bailiff's permission, of course! If I were you, I'd have to go down and see the estate in all its spring finery." "If you were me," he said succinctly, "you wouldn't possess a single feminine instinct, so you wouldn't be governed by reckless emotions; you'd be a man. Is the drink all it should be?" "Are you putting me in my place?" 'You know best whether you need it," he said. "Don^ write me off as a mere male who can easily be deceived by two charming and intelligent women. I've been around, you know. Perhaps it will save you lots of trouble if I tell you now that I'm leaving England at the end of September, probably for two years." She looked at him with sudden candor, saw his face, still darkish from the southern sun and so lean that the bones and masdes''were visible; there was no flesh to spare on Simon, nothing but that economical framework strengthened^ with vigorous musde. "I knew the evening we met that you wouldn't stay; £ even said as much," she answered. "Mrs. Leigh's concern is that Craigwood should have a permanently resident mas° . ter, but even she wouldn't want you to settle there if your heart were elsewhere." "My heart," he replied in the same muted but edged tones, "is not so inconvenient as to ache to be where I'm not. It's adequately ruled from the head." Abruptly, he tamed and broke in upon Marion's conversation with Ralph Sedgwick. "Bowles has made his discreet signal from the doorway. Shall we gojn to dinner?" Bowles was the manservant who managed the flat and served the dishes which his wife so ably concocted. Apparently the. good lady was now receiving poultry and dairy

gnpplies from Manbury, just as Marion did, for she had cooked a large succulent fowl and not spared the butter and eggs in her preparation of the soup, vegetables and sweet. Ralph groaned that he wished Mrs. Bowles were in charge of the kitchen at his club. "I fared a deal better on board," he said. "A ship's cook is often gifted with imagination and the results of it are entertaining and mostly edible. In any case, there's an element of adventure in eating what comes out of the galley of a ship. At the club our meals are sad affairs which remind one of post-mortems." "Why don't you try an hotel?" suggested Marion. Simon gave the reply. "Being a sea-dog, Ralph is remarkably obtuse on land. What he'd really like is a cottage overlooking the Channel and a sea-cook to take care of his wants, with a trim little yacht thrown in. He's now in the unenviable position of needing someone else to make his dedsion." "It's not as' bad as that," said Ralph. "What annoys me is that for years I've anticipated retirement as a time when I'd do all those things which the sea left me no leisure for. Reading, concerts, an occasional day at the races—nothing terribly ambitious, but all the odds and ends of things which make up real enjoyment of life. Big business has never attracted me. Now- that I. find myself with all the time in the world and everything on my door' step, so to speak, I'm still dissatisfied. Believe it or not"— a bony forefinger tapped the edge of the table—"I haven't met a single man who cares for concerts." "Oh, but you won't," said Marion, "because all those who do, have wives and sweethearts to .take along. You'll probably find a woman companion much more appreciative. Pat's a concert fan. She'll go with you, and see that you get the most out of it, too. Won't you, Pat?" Ralph glanced across at Pat with those clear, kindly eyes. "Will you, Miss Gordon? They're playing a favorite symphony of mine next Wednesday. I'll get tickets tomorrow if you'll say the word." Pat was conscious of the silence which, seemed to be .awaiting her response; conscious, too, that Simon had rather noticeably stopped fingering the stem of his glass. '

38

She Smew he wss watching her appraisingly, with a smile that taunted. "You're very kind, Mr. Sedgwick," she said, a thread of defiance in her tones. "I do like concerts. I'd love to go with you." "Fine. At last I have something to look forward to.'"' Soon after this they moved from the table for coffee in the lounge. The conversation was friendly, as if they had all known each other for a long time, and it ranged npon a variety of subjects. It must have been nearly ten when Simon said, "Will you two excuse Miss Gordon and me for a few minutes? We have a small matter to talk over. We'll go to the writing-room." Obediently Pat left her chair and preceded him to the hall. There, he picked up the packet she had brought -and crossed to open another door. As he stood aside for her to enter the small light room, he looked down at hee sardonically. "Come along in, Patricia," he said softly, and not without sarcasm. "You'll be nearly as safe in here with me as you will be when listening to the band with Ralph next Wednesday." Pat was not so sure, but she stepped into the room nevertheless.

THE writing-room, which was probably termed a study by its owner, had a pearl-grey enamelled desk with matching bookshelves and small table, a round-backed chair a£ the desk and a rose-colored studio couch against one wall. Above the studio couch hung a pair of impersonal prints with a framed mirror between them. "It's the spare bedroom, too," Simon commented. "Flats are wonderful, aren't they? So convenient and compact that it's incredible anyone should want to live in/a house these days." "A good many people still prefer to have space about them and a garden," said Pat. "And a flat isn't the best environment for children."

"I suppose not, though there are plenty of boarding schools. That's not one of my problems, thank God." "Do you mean you don't like children?" Simon drew iri' his mouth with exasperation. "I mean nothing of the sort," he said. "Stop trying to put me on the spot. I won't have it." "You don't have to bark. I'm not yet aware of all the subjects on which you're toudiy." His annoyance seemed to increase, then suddenly he laughed. "I can't make out if you're really clever or whether innocence is at the back of those searching remark's. You're a mixture of softness and astringency that I haven't met before, and I can't say that I take to it." "Very well," she said. "I'll remember to be polite and respectful." "Not too respectful; I'm not yet Ralph's age." "Polite, then. Shall we get down to the notes?" He put her in a chair at the desk, emptied the man ilia envelope in front of her and bent over to leaf through the pages of typescript. Seemingly, they met with his approval, for soon he sef'fhem to one side and extracted the other four notebooks from a drawer. "You can take them all," he said, "and return each as it's completed. With you they'll really be safer, and they'll be off my mind as well." "Still no hurry, Mr. Leigh?" / "Simon," he said.* "Call me Simon." She paused for a second. "Isn't that rather too familiar? I never call Mrs. Leigh by her Christian name." "I don't see the connection. I'm not your employer." "Well . . . we're not friends." "Aren't we ?" He looked at her as a doctor might regard a wayward patient, with interest and tolerance. "What's your definition of a man friend ?" ) Pat took an interest in neatly stacking the diaries. Simon was a master of the awkward question, and • furthermore, he expected such questions to be answered. You'd imagine a man who was well thought of in diplomatic circles would possess a smooth charm, a beguiling manner which would soothe the suspicious mind. Perhaps on duty Simon could assume the honeyed, distracting guise while the rapierlife® brain carried on its work. In private life, however, he

did no posing. There he was, standing dose above her and mercilessly awaiting her explanation. "One is friendly with different people for different reasons," she told him. "Mostly one has something or other in common with them." "I see." He spoke as though he were finding the discus» sion instructive, but Pat detected an undertone of satire. "You and Ralph have come together on the musical plane. With Roy Brandon, I take it, you share a delight in night. dubbing and flirtation. That takes care of both the light and serious sides of life. You've only to find someone who makes love the way you want it, and you'll be complete." "I hadn't thought of that," Pat murmured. "Thanks for working it out so mathematically. It's a wonderful help." Relentlessly he pursued the topic; she was discovering that he never could leave anything alone till it was thoroughly sifted. "So we aren't friends because we haven't anything in common. There ought to be a remedy for that, Any suggestions.?" Pat hesitated, her fingers rather tight round the books; then she plunged. "There's Manbury—and Craigwood." "I expected that," he said. "In fact I deliberately asked for it. You soaked up the old gossip in the village rather thoroughly, didn't you, and now you're convinced that my lack of interest in the place is all because of a pair of blue eyes that wouldn't shine for me." His voice went harsh. "Look at me. Do I honestly strike you as a man who'd go on pining for years for one particular woman? Do I?" "No," she said quickly, astonished and vaguely glad. "But you have a fiendish pride which apparently means more to you (than Craigwood does. A man's feeling for a woman may change, but love of a home like Craigwood is rooted, for ever." "My dear child," he said with maddening condescension, "you're contradicting yourself. What you really believe is that I'm spending the bulk of my leave in London because I'm too much of a coward to reopen old wounds at Craigwood." Recklessly she looked up at him and challenged him. "Well, aren't you?"

The silence which followed had an electric quality. Pat endured it almost without breathing for a few seconds, but after that she had to stand up and step away from the desk. If Simon had not been barring her way to the door she would have gone from the room.He was angry; without looking his way she knew it. It came to her precipitately, devastatingly, that Simon had deeps of which she was entirely ignorant, that she had formed her opinions rashly, making no allowances for a^ nature which, through the way of life he had chosen, could not help but be complex. "I'm sorry," she said, staring rather fixedly at the back of the chair. "I'd no right to say that, but you did lead me on. You have your own reasons for staying dear of Craigwood and they have nothing to do with me." She made the effort, then, to pass him. Quite what happened Pat could never afterwards have explained. She felt Simon's hands on her shoulders, gripping with unnecessary force, raised startled eyes and instantly felt the hardness of his mouth upon hers. A savage pressure which bruised her lips and started the salt taste of blood on the inside where her teeth bit in; then there was a yard of space between them, and Simon had his hands in his pockets and a set smile which held a sneer. "That's a type of punishment you'll understand," he said in clipped tones. "Next time you'll think twice before passing judgment!" Hazily, Pat said, "I suppose random kisses are another commodity you feel you've been cheated of during the last few years. It isn't quite fair that I should always be your victim, though." After which she found the door open and Simon bowing her out "You deserved it, Patricia," he murmured mockingly, "and you're a sweet victim." Marion and Ralph Sedgwick were still seated one each side of a lazy fire. From habit, Marion spread her fingers to the warmth, and the glance she gave the two entering the room was contented and negligent. "We've been discussing books, and Admiral Sedgwick has discovered my ignorance. I'm seriously contemplating

dropping out of several committees in 'order to have m hour or two every day for reading." Simon said urbanely, "Your luck's in, Ralph. Friendship, I'm told, is based upon common interests. You're picked up a couple of friends in one go." "I hope you won't kick at sharing them with me." "Not at all, old chap..I believe they're both large-hearted enough to contain the two of us." A few more equally light remarks got Pat safely across die room and into a chair near Marion's. She felt absurdly unsteady and hot with resentment. Her mouth hurt and there was an odd fullness in her throat. There had been something cold-blooded and purposeful in Simon's sure grasp over her shoulder bones, the unerring bearing down of his lips. As if he had set himself an experiment, and carried it out with the objective half of his mind. Perhaps he had wondered if he could still be moved by a woman's nearness and fragrance; and decided that he was cured. He must be feeling somewhat pleased with himself, for anyone less ruffled at the moment it would be hard to find. He was like a wall of steel upon which the arrows of life could leave no impression. Pat wished the same were true of herself. It was uncanny and humiliating to realize that Simon had upset the regularity of her heart-beats and shaken something fundamental in her nature. Infuriating, too, to have sudden hot yet nameless desires. There was no need for her to do much more talking that night. Soon, she and Marion drove away from the flat, leaving Ralph Sedgwick and Simon in the well-lit courtyard. As the car wound through the dark, deserted streets both women were silent, though Marion's finelymoulded mouth was soft and half-smiling, as though she were mentally reviewing an extraordinarily pleasant evening. How would she react, Pat wondered, were she to learn that her imperturbable brother-in-law had kissed her secretary? Probably with a delighted laugh; so Simon was taking that much notice of women already! But Pat allowed no illusions to cloud her own speculations. During those moments in the writing-room Simon's control had never slackened; rather, it had tightened against

her and through her against all women. It was she who had been disarmed and rendered vulnerable. Starlight palely illumined the bedroom when she entered, and for a while she did not switch on the light. With Marion in her own room at the other end of the corridor, the house was very quiet, and Pat's movements as she hung away her coat and slipped off her dress sounded loud in her own ears. She got into her dressing-gown and snapped on the mellow light of the reading lamp on her bedside table, then crossed to the window and leaned her forehead against a window pane. The cool shock of the glass against her burning skin became balm, and she stayed there, gazing down into the well of the tiny garden, thinking about Simon in a new way. Was he happy? And those deeps she had become aware of in him—what were they? Had they to do with Craigwood, where he and his brother had grown up ? Maybe his own valuation of himself—the traveller without roots, the impenetrable cynic—was his true worth, after all. Yet Pat found herself denying such a conception of him, though there seemed to be no other picture to take its place. Tremulously, she reflected that she had never yet met the real Simon; that carefully guarded person might emerge . at Craigwood, but it would not do to depend on it. She turned and saw her reflection in the big circular mirror over the dressing table; the wine-red gown girdled about a narrow waist, her hair strangely pale by contrast. And suddenly to be sweet of character and efficient at her job were not enough. She wanted to be beautiful, irradiated by love. She wanted the happiness which comes from security and serenity of mind, the complete harmony with someone which is inseparable from , « . from a true marriage. Marriage! Pat felt the blood drain from her face. What was wrong with her? She had never before trembled at the thought, but now her whole, being quivered to the dream which sooner or later comes to every woman. She needed to be loved and to love back with every fibre and sinew. The dream became vested with a poignant sadness, and Pat realized that the stare she had trained upon the slight figure in the mirror was dark and intense, bearing no rela44

tion at all to the calm grey gaze with which she had hitherto faced the world. With an effort she drew back from the window and sat down to complete her undressing. What an idiot she was —and all because Simon Leigh had placed his mouth upon hers. She would be wiser to remember that he had not for a second shed his aloofness. By the next time they met he would have forgotten, and she would be well advised to forget, too. <» In any case, she told herself with some vehemence, she disliked Simon; disliked him.

The concert with Ralph Sedgwick the following Wednesday evening was a heartening yet quiet experience. It was like spending an evening-with a favorite unde. In fact, Pat found it hard to believe that they had met only once before. Though he loved the sea, he avoided the subject, probably because he was afraid of boring her. It was Pat herself who eventually led the conversation to the romantic waters south of the Equator. Ralph had called for her soon after seven and taken her in a taxi to one of the smaller, more exclusive restaurants. They had dined upon sole, spring lamb and magnificent pyramids of prepared hothouse fmits, had drunk a little wine, and were contentedly stirring coffee when it occurred to Pat that he was talking like a man who had never even crossed the Channel, let alone navigated his ship through the seven seas. She voiced this opinion. Ralph smiled, crinkling the corners of his very blue eyes. "Candidly," he said, "I've noticed that most bachelors of fifty or over tend to live in the past and make themselves nuisances to everyone who comes within listening distance. I've seen women yawn their heads off and other men slip right off to sleep in the middle of a monologue of reminiscences. When you come to think of it, every life has its points of general interest, its physical and spiritual development, and I. think the man who forces his companions into the role of an admiring audience has already missed a lot and is in danger of missing a. lot more. That way you never get to know people."

"But you've spent so many years at sea that it's part of you. One has to.leam something about those years to know you at all." "You flatter me," he told her, still smiling but with sincerity. "What would you like to hear about—my work, or the places I've been to?" Pat's smallish, vital face took on a look of absorption. "They're tied up together. Let's play a game. I'll mention a place and you teU me what it conjures for you." She barely hesitated before adding, "Celebes." Kindly, wholeheartedly, he entered into her mood. Like most men who have been compelled to live very much inside themselves, he had almost .unconsciously stored up innumerable scenes and incidents, and now they emerged dear-cut, economically colored, in phrases so bare of embellishment that Pat was no longer seated amid the discreet gossip and clatter of a fashionable London eating-house. She was in the roaring forties, the teeming cities of the East, the languorous lagoons of the southern seas. Here was a man her father would find congenial. She could imagine the two of them in fhe cottage, smoking their pipes, one each side of the brick fireplace. Edmund Gordon was ever discovering something new in England —in Maabury, even. To .him it was incumbent upon every man to know his own country before venturing to take a vacation abroad, but he enjoyed hearing at first hand about lands he had no real desire to visit. In this. Pat was like? Slim. "To me," Ralph was saying, "the interest in travelling is pointed by the people one mns into. .The countries— the architecture, mountains, rivers, crops—are all very much as fhe guide books depict them, but the human being isn't stereotyped; he's the product of his own experiences, and in remote places he's sometimes very odd. There was an old man in Bayeng whom Simon introduced me to; he'd never left his native village but somehow or other he'd acquired culture and a marvellous philosophy." 'Pat answered slowly, "Don't you think that when a man has lived among strange folk he's rather inclined to be contemptuous of the merely ordinary?"

"Speaking for myself, no. What you call ordinary I find engaging and restful, and infinitely preferable to the excitements of the exotic." "Simon's just the opposite," she said. Thoughtfully, Ralph tapped his dgarette upon the edge of a glass ashtray and pushed away his coffee cup. His thin but strong brown hands rested in front of him on the table. "I wouldn't say that. If Simon's duties took him to the lonely coasts of Greenland he'd perform them with thoroughness and get a kick out of doing so. I've never known anyone to accomplish so much work with so little fuss. Since he's been back there's a rumor of a fine dipio- ' matic future for him." "Does that meannhe'll always have to live abroad?" "Not necessarily. If he chose, he could spend quite a lot of time at Craigwood." Pat looked quickly at his face, with the network of tiny lines imprinted there by salt winds and the glaring sun, and a mouth that was humorous yet shrewd. Marion must have hinted to him of her hopes about Simon, and Ralph ^ i also knew of Simon's decision to leave England in September. For a minute she was swept by a surge of annoyance. Bother Simon. How had one man achieved such importance in their lives, And in such a short time, too. A month ago she and Marion Leigh had been serenely^ happy and uncaring, and, unknown to them, Ralph Sedgwick had been established in his bachelor dub. Then Simon had appeared, rocked the house in Cumberland Square into a state of frustration and discontent, extricated Ralph from his torpor, and thrown them all together as one might shake up peas in a pot. Fortunately, Ralph was a dear, but even so, Simon had no right to start an upheaval if he had no intention of staying to see it through. "It would have been better for Mrs. Leigh if Simon had stayed away from England," she said now. "It's hard to have all her old longings resurrected.". "Simon wouldn't see it that way," he replied gently, "and I don't believe he makes her in the least miserable. You're young, and every little blow leaves its mark. But when a woman reaches Mrs. Leigh's age and wisdom, things even out for her and past suffering loses its sting, because it has entered into her personality and mellowed. Have

you noticed that when she speaks of her husband she invariably smiles?" Pat had noticed it, of course, but it surprised her that this man who had impinged upon their existence only 1'ast Friday "should already' have seen so far below Marion's beautifully-lacquered surface. The admiral certainly had something about him! Soon, he looked at his watch and said they must hurry. Pat pushed Simon from her mind and later she listened, with the same silent appreciation as Ralph's, to the "Eroica" symphony and a violin sonata. When he took her home his thanks for her company were warm and emphatic. He'd never had such an enjoyable evening and they must have another soon. No'doubt Simon and Mrs. Leigh could be persuaded to join them. ^1B> "I'm sure Mrs. Leigh is fond of music," he said, "and Simon's not so hardboiled, either. He always kept \a selection of good gramophone records in his bungalow." But Pat thought that Simon would avoid attending con_, certs. Music, she well knew, has a potent charm, and ' Simon did not want to be dsarmed.

C.H AFTER FIVE PAT was up early next morning. She had' awakened depressed yet unable to explain the depression. The sun was shining, thinly and reluctantly but still shining, the sparrows were noisily jubilant in the trees andJEdna was singing somewhere below in • her pretty but nasal voice. For the hundredth time Pat considered it a pity that Edna had never been able to afford singing and elocution, lessons, and as usual she concluded that the girl was no doubt far happier in the sphere she had chosen, where tradesmen called her "a proper skylark" and even Mrs. Parker occasionally showed admiration by grudgingly requesting "a chorus", than if she had fought with better performers on the radio or on -the stage. 'After this reflection, the weighted sensation which had descended upon her heart became so oppressive that Pat swung her legs out of bed, set about her toilet and, with-

out pausing for .her customary peep into the back garden, went down to breakfast. With a queer sort of relief she found the dining-room empty. Marion had dined out last night but she wouldn't be down a moment after eight o'dock. She never was. Pat ate mechanically. She was needing a break from London, that was it. The long weekend with JRoy Brandon's aunt in Kent would put hec right for a while, but she yearned with an unprecedented intensity to spend a couple of weeks with her father at Manbury. From spring, along the warm green roads of summer and into .the rich russet and flame of autumn, it was so beautiful down there. Peaceful, too. Her father, himself schooled by years of teaching exuberant youth, was as sane and placid as the trees which spread their green umbrellas over the river. As well as being scholarly he was wise and possessed of an all-embracing tolerance. In his last letter he had alluded to the summer vacation; he rather fancied the Lake District 'this year and thought that Hugh Dyson, the art master, would accompany him, but she could be sure they would not depart till she had come and gone from Manbuiy. . An unfamiliar tide of rebellion rose in her. The idea of spending her annual leave at Craigwood was stifling. She loved the old walls, the orchards and sloping lawns, the big whitewashed kitchens with oak beams across the ceilings, and massive hearths, the maze of stone-flagged, boxhedged paths which led to the bulging-walled stables and; outhouses. She liked the back of the house as much as the imposing front; the kitchens and smaller living-rooms had a snugness which was more difficult to achieve in the great panelled hall and front drawing-rooms. Craigwood was a house to fall in love with, a house with an ancient, com•prehending spirit, but to Pat is could become something more: a haven of the heart. And it is foolish to place one's heart in precarious keeping. She knew that. She would like to stay with her father in the cottage- this time, but it had only two bedrooms and old Mr. Rathem, the history master, nov/ occupied the one which had been Pat's. Old P<.atty, as he was affectionately termed by the boys,' was set in his ways and disinclined for change; he wouldn't even consider moving into the local hotel for a fortnight. Pat sighed, and wondered whether it would be warm 4Q

enough to wear her new yellow linen down in Kent. She would travel in tweeds, take her black and coral frocks for dinner, and the heavy green spun with long sleeves. She and Roy would walk and talk a heap of nonsense, there would undoubtedly be tennis (mustn't forget her shorts and a shirt), and they might even do some horse-riding, though she did not own a habit; so far she had only hacked a bit inthe fields near home. With Roy there, the evenings would be hilarious. Pat's heart lightened. She had nothing to be blue about. Why, Roy was almost in love with her, and what more could a woman want than to have fun with a man to whom she was important? She got up from the table and stood for a moment looking out at the dew-sparkling square where the wallflowers and tulips had given way to budding antirrhinums and the limes waved emerald arms. Perhaps she had time for a stroll. But as she tamed Marion came into the room. In a tailored brown wool suit with a severe white blouse, -Mrs. Leigh looked ready to face a day behind a desk, but as she came to the table Pat saw that her eyes were lively and that a natural pink enhanced her fine features. And subtly, she carried an air of hope and gaiety. "Hello, my dear," she said. "What a grand morning!" The weather wasn't as wonderful as all that. The sun -as yet had no warmth and there was a distinct nip in the breeze which rustled the double damask curtains. But Pat was willing to be persuaded. She always felt braced when Marion was more than usually happy, and this morning she definitely needed a fillip. "The weather experts predict rain," she commented, "but they're not always right." "I don't mind rain in the latter part of the day. It's waking up to it that I find devitalizing." Marion took a sip of fruit juice and glanced up, smiling. "How did the concert go off last night?" "Splendidly. Admiral Sedgwick's a pleasant companion." Marion nodded. "So he is, and you feel you can trust him—with your confidences, I mean. He wouldn't laugh at you if they happened to be womanish; in fact, that's exactly what he'd expect of you. For a seaman he's comfortingly human."

Pat laughed. "People who love the sea are mostly nice —have you noticed that? I think living on or near the ocean must be vary calming. It's those, who don't love anything who are difficult to get along with." Marion's glance sharpened somewhat, but she made no immediate reply, for Parker had sedately entered the room carrying the silver dish from which he insisted on serving breakfast, however little there was of it, Parker often stated that if the day should come when he could not perform his rites v/ith elegance and dignity he would fold himself up and depart this life. Which showed that Parker was a pleas. ant anachronism. "Thank you," said his mistress." I'll have coffee today." She broke a piece of toast, waited till his muffled footsteps had receded, then addressed Pat. "Has Ralph Sedgwick asked you to go out with him again?" "He'd like you to go as well, next time." "I'm afraid that won't be possible for several weeks." She gave a swift, ecstatic laugh. "What am I saying! I'm not afraid at all. I'm glad." She seemed young and eager, and was obviously too exdted to eat. "Pat, you and I have to be very busy today. I'm cancelling every appointment in the diary and arranging for various people to fill in for me while I'm away." v "While you're away," Pat echoed. "Where are yoa going?" "Not putting this at all well, am I? I was going to tell you about it when I came in last night—was bursting to, but it was so late and your light was out. Simon was at the Cartv/rights' for dinner and he drove me home. We spoke several times during the evening but we were right here, on the step, before he casually informed me that we—he and you and I—are going down to Craigwood for a while on Saturday." "Craigwood!" Pat felt as if she were holding something too heavy for her strength. "Are you sure?" "That's exactly how I received it, too. I can't think what can have changed his mind—I didn't like to ask him for fear he'd change it back. With Simon one has to be awfully careful, and 'I shan't dare uncross my fingers till we're actually installed in the house. But he says he's going to
live there till September, and keep the flat only for a night in town now and then. Isn't it marvellous?" Pat hadn't grasped it yet. Was it really possible that Simon had decided to spend three months at Craigwood? But what could be behind such a dedsion? Pat was fatally certain of an underlying motive; Simon never acted without one. Had her challenge roused him to prove that he could exist at Craigwood, become part of its pattern and still break loose when his time was up? It could be, yet one could scarcely credit his regarding anything Pat might say as worthy of so drastic a demonstration. "Did he tell you the reason?" she managed. "Only that he's tired of town and doesn't fancy a country hotel—which is eyewash, of course. I believe he's feeling the pull." "I hope so," said Pat inadequately. She ought to have been wildly elated, but she wasn't. Only fifteen minutes ago she had been sunk in a welter of longing to see her father and Manbury, but now both had lost significance beside the fact that at Craigwood there would be no escape from the tyrannical personality of Simon. "I hardly slept all last night," Marion confessed. "This is the biggest thing which has come to me since . . . well, for many years. Don't you see, Pat, that with Simon there, in his own castle, half our battle is won! We'll get Aunt Alison over at once from Truro to give the place atmosphere, and invite all the spare young things in the neighborhood: Honour Willings—you remember her?—Annette Marshall, Sir Francis' daughter, the Belton twins, and there are several others. You'll enjoy organizing house parties for a change!" "But . . . he'd meet even more women in London, women more to his taste." "Quite, but at Craigwood his pyschological reaction to them will be different. He'll be the master there, and without our interference in any way, he'll gradually realize what's expected of him by the whole neighborhood, and maybe he'll come to the condusion that domestic life in such a place needn't be so tame, after all." There was another pause while Parker re-entered, poured a cup of coffee, gazed reproachfully at the untouched kid-

ney and bacon, and placed the coffee pot predsely on its stand. When he had gone Pat moved slightly towards the door. "Your breakfast will be cold." "It doesn't matter — I couldn't eat it, anyway. This means so much to me that I feel all shaky inside, for fear it won't succeed. Pat" — there was a note almost of appeal in her voice —' "how would you feel if Craigwood belonged to you and you hadn't seen it for nearly six years?" "I ... don't know." She spoke unsteadily. "I think I'd feel rather full of tears and terribly grateful to find it hadn't changed." "So would I. Well why shouldn't Simon experience the masculine equivalent of that? If we could be moved by such emotion — we outsiders — surely he, who has Craigwood in his very bones, can't be entirely untouched? It's that particular feeling which will make him want to marry." "He'll have to fall in love first." "I'm not so sure." Marion looked speculatively into her cup and took a sip from it. "We have to remember that he's been in love once; he isn't likely-to repeat that particular folly. It's my opinion that if he does choose a wife he'll do it rationally, with an eye to the future. Such unions are often sucessful. Simon would make a go of it." A flush had crept into Pat's cheeks; the heat of it exasperated her but she strove to ignore it. "I don't believe he'll marry," she said, hoping her tones were flat and disinterested. "From the few talks I've had with him I'd say he's not in a mood even to consider it." "Not yet," agreed Marion softly. She appeared about to add more on the subject, and then, apparently, she thought better of it. She got up and slipped a cigarette from the silver box on the mantelpiece. Abstractedly, she flicked the lighter and inhaled. "Simon's bought a car, a big dashing affair. He'll drive us both down in it on Saturday and I'll leave mine here for the use of anyone who needs it. The servants will take their annual holiday and follow us to Craigwood." Pat said, "Had you forgotten that I'm going away this .week-end?"

"It's only Koy, isirt it? If you ring him up at once he can arrange to take someone else. You'll be glad of a spell in Manbury, won't you?" "Of course, but I was looking forward to a couple of days in Kent, too. I promised Roy only yesterday that I wouldn't let him down." "He won't mind. Simon particularly wants us to go OB Saturday." "It can't matter to him when f go. Fit catch the noon train next Tuesday." , "But, Pat. .." Marion twisted and looked into her face. "Simon definitely included you in the arrangement. Is it necessary to cross him just when he's beginning to capitalate? He told me that you're making an excellent job of his notes, and as soon as we're settled at Craigwood- I'm to leave you entirely free to finish them. He's anxious that the next few weeks shall be a holiday for all of us." Pat thought of something, but hesitated before phrasing it. Then she said, "Didn't you tell him that I'm booked up this week-end?" "Yes, I did, early in the evening. When I reminded him later he simply shrugged and said, 'She'll come, if you ask her. Her father means more to her than that young fly-bynight!'" Marion's smile was amused but a little placating., In other circumstances Pat would have gone to lengths rather than hurt her, but Simon had stepped a pace or two beyond his rights. It seemed to have slipped his mind that Marion's secretary was only at his command during office hours. She had already been granted leave from Friday afternoon till Tuesday morning, and she was stubbornly determined to take it. Not that she wouldn't have preferred to spend Sunday with her father; that went without saying. But she refused to have her movements dictated by Simon. If she obeyed him in this she was lost. Which sounded fantastic but was, she knew, unmistakably true, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Leigh," she said. "I gave my word to Roy before Simon made his dedsion. I'll come to Craigwood on Tuesday." Seeing there was positively nothing more to add, she went from the room,,

Automatically, she stopped at the hall table for the basket of letters and carried it up the staircase to the office. The envelopes were slit, their contents unfolded and flattened; and presently Pat began to tap out replies on the typewriter. As Marion had foreseen, the day tamed out to be a busy one. There were dozens of telephone calls to make, scores of brief letters announcing her departure to be typed and posted. Pat was kept at it till eight that evening, after which she dined alone, Marion having gone off to the theatre. During Friday there was a slight constraint between the two women, and once or twice Pat was on the point of climbing down. But each time she was held back by the thought of Simon carelessly ordering her life as if she were an appendage of the Leigh family, and her pride flared. She couldn't let him succeed. She gathered that he would be here at Cumberland Square for the evening but knew that he was unlikely to show up before seven, and by then she would be well on her way. She packed the bulk of her dothes in the large trunk and let Parker carry it away for despatch to Manbury. Most of her books and small possessions could remain in her room, and her suitcase stood ready to be stowed into Roy's sports car. When that debonair young man rang the door bell at five o'dock Pat had only to wish Marion good-bye. The older woman, regarded her with a faintly rueful expression. "Have a good time, Pat," she said, "and don't worry. You're absolutely entitled to please yourself in this, and I'm not blaming you a scrap. We'll see you on Tuesday. Goodbye, my dear." She bent forward, lightly touched her lips to the firm young cheek and waved them off with a show of cordiality. Pat snuggled into her seat and answered Roy's airy smile. This was what she had been anticipating so eagerly — a temporary relief from the Leigh household in undemanding company. For two or three days she would live on the gay surface of life. She wanted laughter, gales of it, and plenty of action. Roy would see to it ..that she was abundantly supplied with both. 55

Deep down, though, Pat was not deceived. She was too honest with herself not to realize that the week-end had already been blighted by the dark and ruthless essence of Simon. CHAPTER SIX THE whole way to Exeter the train was full. There, the carriages disgorged their loads, the train was broken in two and the first half meandered on at leisurely speed through the villages and hamlets of Devon towards the coast. Pat's eyes ached with the strain of searching for beloved landmarks: stone and brick houses clustering about a steeple and the whole embedded in trees, a sleepy farm, a scribble of hills, a pine copse. Her eyes strained but her mind only half accepted what they saw, for it was otherwise occupied. The week-end had dragged. The converted country house belonging to Roy's aunt had! been disappointingly ostentatious and slightly vulgar, but in everyone else it had roused enthusiasm so Pat, perforce, had exdaimed her admiration. Some of the house guests had. been rather bogus, too; even Roy had admitted as much, though he extracted enjoyment from them. Against that background he had shown up extraordinarily well. He had protected Pat as if she were a tender seedling among avid tares, and gone off alone with her whenever possible. She had been grateful to him, but so glad to have awakened this morning knowing that this was the day of days, when she would see her father and begin to dig back into Manbury. The train slowed. Pat's breath caught and now her whole attention was given to the undulating stretch of country beyond the window, to the l.ine of silver birches feathered with green, to the sweep of color and light upon the river. And how lovely the sky — the blue-grey of a dove's breast, and cloudless. As Pat stood up to reach down her case she was unconscious that the shine in her eyes, the anticipatory parting of red lips had revealed her to the other three passengers as a girl at long last coming home. One of them helped her and she murmured her thanks, but she could not have said what any of them looked like.

The train jolted to a halt, a porter lazily shouted, "Manbury," delightfully burring the "r", and Pat was on the platform, breathing in the scent from a border of stocks and feasting upon the masses of pink roses which hung all along the fence at each side of the tiny station building. Yes, this was home! The air was warm and caressing, enveloping, as though receiving her back. Without hurry, she moved along towards the exit with ths other half-dozen people who had left the train. She bumped into someone, said, "I'm so sorry," and stared up into the hawk-like face of Simon Leigh. : He gave her a tight-lipped smile, took her case in his left hand and her elbow in his right, and led her past the bar" rier and out to the station yard, where stood his gleaming burgundy saloon. "I didn't expect to be met," she said. "No? What did you intend to do—walk it?" "I was going home to my father first. It's only ten minutes' walk across the fields." "I'll take you there. He knows I'm meeting you. Marion told him yesterday." He had her seated and himself had slid behind the wheel and started up the car. They swerved out into a narrow road with cottages at each side, and Pat saw that two women who were chatting at a gate had broken off their conversation in order to watch the passing vehicle. Both were smiling in a pleased fashion, and Pat noticed that ever so slightly Simon inclined his head to them. She knew the tarn their gossip would take: "Mr. Leigh's handsome, isn't he? D'you suppose he'll stay for good up at the house?" "No telling. Looks haughty to me—nothing like his brother. Mr. Richard would always give you good day from the car window, and he didn't mind driving about in one that was shabby and old-fashioned. Seems as if this Mr. Simon can't unbend." "He doesn't know us—not very well, anyway. He's bees away in foreign parts a long time. Funny how he cleared off to heaven knows where. Of course, he couldn't have known then that his brother would die so suddenly, though I expect he knew there'd be no children. Mr. Ridiard was 57

It would be amiable gossip. Pat was sore. She liked to believe that Manbury folk, mudi though they relished a startling rumor, a scandal or minor catastrophe, at heart were as companionable and benevolent as the green hills which cradled the village, The car was taking the angle into the main street when Simon belatedly enquired, "Did you have a good weekend?" Pat replied conventionally, "Yes, thank you." "Are you pleased to be back in Manbury?" ' She nodded. "It's my anchor." After a sileace he enquired, "Have you made any more arrangements with Brandon?" "No." She threw him a swift, curious look. "Why?" He shrugged, but did not turn his gaze from the narrow roadway ahead. "No reason," he said non-committally. "Did you have any rain in Kent?" "Not a spot. But it's been raining here, hasn't it? I caa sanell it." "We had a heavy shower this morning."' He stopped to allow a crowd of home-going schoolchildren to cross the road to the bus stop. Through her window Pat smiled and waved at one or two of them. As the car moved on she twisted to watch them crush into Mrs. Chard's little shop; some were already out again and consuming violent-colored drinks through straws, and the penniless ones, dutching their season tickets, were forming a seething queue for the bus. The main street was exactly as Pat always visualized it. Small shop windows with overhanging, beamed upper storeys, the road too narrow for the desultory stream of assorted vehides. But no one was in a hurry. Manbury had an air of diangelessness, of affinity with bygone, more plar dd centuries. As they tamed from the main street into a lane which widened and became a residential road. Pat looked up at Manbury School on the hill. Its walls rose from the emerald summit, brownish-grey and creeper-covered, with steer* gables and one odd-looking turret

A thread of pure joy ran in Pat's tones. "They've gilded the weather-vane. Doesn't it shine! My father wrote that they've more boarders than ever this year." She cast a momentary glance at Simon. "Doesn't it make you proud that the first Leighs at Craigwood built the school?" " 'For the sons of indigent gentlemen'," he quoted with sarcasm. "I believe the word • 'indigent' is omitted from * the prospectus nowadays." "That isn't important," she said, at once defensive. "They still take a number of free pupils and they discour- > age snobbishness. You're too ready to condemn." "Really?" His voice was even and mocking. "If we had time I'd take you up on that. But there will doubtless be other opportunities in the days to come. By the way, we didn't greet one another very effusively, did we? May I now express my pleasure in seeing you once more, and hope that your stay at Craigwood will not tax your tolerance?" "How kind of you. You phrase your remarks so sweetly," she said. How she detested the purposeful manner in which he "set about feeding her hostility towards him. Did he derive enjoyment from making her angry, or was it simply that he didn't care? She heard him give a small laugh, saw the thinnish, well-cut lips twitch with amusement, but there was no time for comment. The car stopped at the grass verge in front of the whitewalled cottage with its old, rich .brown thatch and the square chimney-stack which her father always averred was slightly out of true. And there was Edmund Gordon himself, slim and grey-haired, his thin, middle-aged face smiling as he swung back the green wooden gate and came to meet her. "Well, Pat, my dear." He received her kiss, then regarde^ her critically. "Seems to me you haven't come home a moment too soon. Was she as pale as this in London, Simon ?" ' "Sometimes." Simon stood with his hands in his pockets and a quizzical light in his eyes. "Your daughter has spent the week-end with a rather hectic young man." "I've been travelling all day," Pat retorted with a trace of tartness, "I shall be all right after a cup of tea." 59

She had thought that Simon would leave her there and drive back to Craigwood, but apparently he had previously been invited to stay, for the table in the cottage sittingroom was neatly laid for three, and he seated her in one of the ladder-back chairs as if he were familiar with the /placet "I ought to wash first," she said. Simon flicked his fingers. "You don't look grubby, my diild. We'll accept you as you are." He waited till her father had sunk into a chair before taking his own, and then turned an> interested glance upon a plate heaped with hot scones. "They smell good." "Better than usual," said Mr. Gordon. "They smell of your butter. Kind of you to send it." Mrs. Moss came in, carrying the large flowered teapot, a dish of anchovy toast fingers and the honey jar. She was a big woman addicted to blue-and-white print aprons, a widow who lived rent-free at the other end of the village on the Craigwood estate. She nodded placidly at Pat, but her high color denoted a self-consdousness in the presence of Simon. ^, "Thank you, Mrs. Moss." Pat made room for the dish. "How are you, these days?" "Nicely, thanks." "And the children?" "Still up to their eyes in trouble." Hurriedly she added, "Will you be-wanting,anything else?" "This looks more than enough. You're treating me too well, Mrs. Moss." "It's such a long time since you was here." The woman vanished and Pat poured the tea. She wished she were alone with her father so that they might talk contentedly of all that had transpired since Easter. Simon ruffled the peace of the place, unsettled her and made her unable to relax in those chintzy surroundings which she had known from childhood. And she could not help wondering at her father's friendliness for him. Of course, Edmund Gordon must have been acquainted with Simon in those days before tropical seas had claimed him; during Richard's time the sdiool had had frequent contact with the Leighs, for Richard had been essentially a Devon man with a deep love of tradition and an inherent sense of

family duty which" would now be termed old-fashioned. Her father had seldom discussed the Leighs with Pat, possibly because he had imagined she had learned all it was necessary to know about them from Marion. She tamed to him now. "You didn't mind my not coming down on Saturday? I'd already promised to go to Kent." "Of course I didn't mind, particularly as you'll be here for some weeks. Simon was good enough to call in and tell me all about you on Saturday evening." "That surprises you, doesn't it?" Simon said, still with a glint of mockery, "It does, rather," she assented, determined not to be settled. "I wasn't aware that you knew all about me. What do you think of Manbury alter an absence of several years?" "It seems to have contracted somewhat, but is otherwise unchanged." ' "And ... Craigwood?" He was still smiling but his eyes narrowed at her, as if daring her to go as far as she liked. "The lilacs are still blooming," he said. The lilacs! He was deliberately reminding her of the evening when he had taken her to the writing-room of the flat. Her teeth went tight with the effort to quell a retort which might have puzzled her father, and in a moment she was able to sip her tea and lie back in her diair as though the subject of Craigwood had no importance, anyway. It wouldn't do to arouse her father's curiosity; already he had glanced from one to the other in mild astoa° ishment. The conversation took a more ordinary course. The men - discussed the forthcoming Manbury Summer Fair, and presently old Mr. Rathern, the history master, who was not half so testy as he appeared, came in and refused to drink tea, though he unashamedly and greedily deared the cake and scone dishes. Pat went off to wash, and to exchange a more private word with Mrs. Moss. She sat on the edge of the kitchen table with the sun across her bright head, listening to the local news, and gradually London receded and she was enmeshed in the small and vital happenings of Manbury.

It was nearly seven when Pat heard her father call her name. She said a swift goodbye to Mrs. Moss and hastened out to the front garden. The men stood on the short paved path, and Simon was holding wide the gate. "I'll walk over tomorrow," Pat told her father. "Do, my dear, and on Saturday you must come to the cricket match at the school. We still have Lake as sports master. In fact, the only change in the school staff is in the art department. We now have a specialist in such things— Hugh Dyson, the man I mentioned in my letter. You'll meet him here tomorrow, if yoa come in the afternoon. He's having tea with me." • Neither Pat nor Simon spoke much on the way to Craigwood. The sun threw gold beams across the copper tops of the beeches, cast into relief the great stone urns which ornamented the tall pillars at the entrance to the wide, treelined drive. The damp had released the scents of clover and wood-sorrel, and 'above the soft purr of the engine Pat heard the unmistakable call of a cuckoo. Then all else was forgotten and her heart gave a definite lurch as the house came into view, the austere walls softened by green smudges of wistaria, the sunset touching with fire the latticed windows and bronzing the stonework. A 'fortress of a house, but a friendly, inviting fortress, with an extravagant width of porch which was reached by a semi-circular flight of steps flanked on each side by an ornate stone balustrade. Her breath caught sharply and audibly. "Oh, Simon ..." She checked herself abruptly, resolutely kept her eyes averted from him, knowing that his expression would be dark and satirical. "Oh, Simon what?" "I won't tell you because you'd grin and make me angry. Has Mrs. Cunliffe arrived yet ?" "Aunt Alison? Marion arranged for her to be here to greet us on Saturday. She acts the part of matriarch extremely well. I love the old lady." "That's quite something." "What is?" he demanded tersely. "Answer me that without hedging." "Well, it's something that you love her. It's amazing to me that you can love anyone." 62

"I believe you're confusing tne several types of love, Patricia," he said in a pleasant drawl as he switched off the engine. "If you were more amenable I might even love you ,. . as a sister. Stubborn as you are, you're quite likeable." "Thanks. I wish I could compliment you in return. Shall •we go in?" As he helped her out she heard him laugh softly and privately, Marion was in the great oaken hall near one of the blazing log fires; She came'forward, elegant in a dark green velvet suit and a diamond collaret, and held out both hands in a happy welcome. "I thought you two would never get here. Aunt Alison isn't down yet. Will you have a drink. Pat?" "I'd rather change, if I may." "Go ahead. Your trunk is in your room, and Mansell will take your case. Whisky ,»Simon?" "Not just yet. Maybe I should change, too, or Aunt Alison will say I'm letting down the dan." "Be quick, then. Our guests are invited for seven-thirty." To Pat she said, "We're only having a couple of men this evening—six of us altogether. Are you tired ?" "No, just excited. I always feel this way the ifirst day at Manbury." Marion nodded comprehendingly. "I know that feeling, and it's so breathtaking to come to the house at this hour. If I didn't know him better, I'd wager that Simon purposely kept you late at your father's in order to impress you with the magnificence of his domain in the sunset." To this Simon did not bother to reply. He indicated the staircase which rose straight from the hall and mounted it at Pat's side. Halfway up, the stairs branched both left and right, and here he stopped. "I have the corner room above the terrace. Can you find your way to yours?" "Easily, thanks. And thank you for meeting me at the station." "That's all right, little one. Almost anything makes a change down here." He gave her an enigmatic grin and they parted, he to , Sake the right-hand stairs three at a time, and Pat to negof&

tiate those opposite more soberly. She found that she was a little tired, after all. Her room was richly comfortable. A pastel green bath towel warmed over the back of a chair near the fire, and the green and gold brocade curtains were already drawn against advandng dusk. The soft lights illumined the pattern of leaves in the gold carpet, and shed a luxuriant glow over the polished walnut of the wardrobe and dressing-table. Irresistibly she compared the tomato-red and pinewood room she had slept in last night with the muted splendor around her. It wasn't only the difference in bedrooms, she admitted to herself. This was Craigwood, the incomparable. Nevertheless, she could not entirely throw off the feeling of suffocation which had first assailed her the morning she had learned she was to live for the next few weeks under the beloved, ancient roof, with Marion and Simon. Somewhere deep in her consciousness lay foreboding, and bound up with it was the fatal admission that now Simon had entered her life he could never be driven from it. She gave a sigh and began to undress.

During her first days at Craigv/ood Pat did little work —Aunt Alison saw to that. Mrs. Cunliffe was a slender woman of average height and possessed of the aquiline Leigh features. Her hair was white and beautifully soft, and she had the delicate coloring of a porcelain figure. She wore the powder blue which is so attractive with white hair, and lavender linen which drew attention to eyes that had once been so deeply blue as to appear violet; they were still lovely and alert. Aunt Alison had married at the age of eighteen in an era when young ladies were obedient first to their parents and thereafter to their husbands. Her young wifehood had been happy, for her two children thrived and hei\ barrister husband adored her, and twice a year there had been the excitement of the brief journey from Truro to Manbury, and heavenly holidays with her brother and nephews. The first blow had fallen when her son perished towards the end of the first world war, and the second when her f,A

daughter became a victim of the influenza epidemic with which that war dosed. She had grieved without bitterness and inevitably grown closer to her husband. From then on the years had flowed over her without making many inroads upon her small but hardy physique. Her husband, the judge, had died three years ago, and she had lived on in her abode of memories with the old and faithful Charlotte, who had been her maid and companion for fifty years. For Craigwood, for the Leighs, and for any who had connections with them, Aunt Alison's fund of affection was inexhaustible. When Marion had telephoned an S.O.S. last week, Mrs, Cunliffe had come swiftly and joyfully alive, for here was something she could do, something big—for Simon, who was the last of the Leighs, and whom she loved best in all the world. Charlotte must come along to Craigwood, too, for with whom else could she thoroughly sift the smallest incident and the less tangible signs and omens? Though she had tamed seventy, Mrs. Cunliffe's ideas were, for the most part, up to date. She didn't think the younger-generation behaved too badly, and for some things she admired them tremendously. Perhaps a few were a little difficult to understand, but patience in research was invariably rewarded. That was why she sought out. Pat and led her to talk about herself. One morning they were seated under a chestnut in the garden. The sun dappled the grass around them and two blackbirds were busy in a nearby hedge. Marion and Simon had gone off to play golf with the Beltons and a hush lay over the vast house and gardens. Aunt Alison's voice was gentle. "I musn't go on monopolizing you, Patrida. It's so long since I had dose contact with anyone so young and fresh as you are that I'm afraid I've taken advantage of my years. But these talks of ours haven't been wasted, you know." "I do know. I often think later, when I'm in bed, of what you've said." "I'm glad of that. Without experience and knowledge it's very 'easy to get tied up inside oneself. Sometimes we get so tangled that we forget what we're seeking."

"It's mostly happiness in some form or other," said Pat. "I suppose it's natural to look for the things that will cheer one's own life." "Too often, though, we hurt others by taking what we imagine is best for ourselves. Simon did it, some years ago, and he intends to do it again, but more frankly and ruthlessly this time."', Simon did it, some years ago . . . took what he considered the best course for his personal well-being. Pat's heart missed a beat. "I've heard," she said as casually as she could, "that he , left England because there was a woman he loved who didn't love him." "It's possible; Marion thinks so. But Simon always had a taut, imperious charm. Had he temporarily submerged his pride he could have won her. I daresay to you, Patricia, Marion and I are simply two women incomprehensibly obsessed with getting Simon married?" "No." But Pat could offer no further remark on that particular aspect. "I shall have to do some work now. May I get your book?" Aunt Alison gave her gentle, simple smile. Perhaps she was aware of Pat's sudden uneasiness, for she reached thin, flexible fingers to touch the pale hand which held the arm of the adjacent chair rather tightly. "Ask Charlotte to bring my needlework. I want a word "with her." Pat delivered the message and went- along to the small room which had been set aside as an office. She lifted the cover from the typewriter and shifted fhe table on which it stood into a rectangle of sunshine which slanted from the window. There was a batch of mail which had been forwarded from London, and a few other letters which Marion had dictated yesterday afternoon. They^would be finished by one, and this afternoon she must concentrate on the third of Simon's notebooks. Odd how she was coming to loathe the sight of those diaries and to feel nothing but distaste for their exotic contents.

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. CHAPTER SEVEN THE morning pssed. She heard Marion and Simon come home, apparently bringing friends with them for lunch. At Pat's request, Mansell brought a tray to the office, and when she had eaten the salad and fruit she resumed her position at the portable typewriter. It was less easy to manipulate than the streamlined affair at Cumberland Square and was indined to rove around the desk. No one interrupted her. The house quietened for an hour, after which the sound of feminine laughter echoed dully along the corridor, and Pat opened her door because it was no longer necessary to mute the tapping of the keys. Presently she looked through the window and saw Simon and another man, with the dark, curly-haired Belton twins between them, swinging away towards the tennis court. In white, Simon was tall and lithe and vital. The summer sun was deepening his tan, so that his teeth, as he spoke smilingly down to the girl at his side, looked extraordinarily white. For a long unhappy moment Pat felt bruised and locked out. Then she sensibly told herself that it was her own fault if she was not out there with them. She had only to change and stroll out with a tennis racquet in her hand to be accepted and welcomed by them. Today, after the days of idleness spent chiefly with Mrs. Cunliffe, she just had no time for tennis. At four-thirty Marion came into the office. "Oh, there you are, Pat. Aunt Alison said she thought you'd shut yourself in here to work, but I don't want you to overdo it. Is this Simon's stuff?" She took up a sheet of typing and read a few lines aloud: The agent here was sick and emadated and his shack crawled with every conceivable type of pest, yet the climate, though sticky, is not too bad. He was supposed to be married to the colored woman who kept house for him. Monotony must hav^ got him down, but I didn't probe. Suggest you put in a younger man as assistant, give the agent three, months' sick leave and review again in a year's time'." Marion hurriedly dropped the paper. "Sends a hot shiver along your spine, doesn't 67

it? Dirt, heat and outsize insects. Are all the notes like that?" "Some brighter, some more ghoulish. The best bits are . about the islanders and the things they grow. They're really interesting, though I wouldn't tell Simon that." Pat .stood up. "If you'll sign the letters, I'll walk down to the village and post them. I need the exercise." "I looked into tell you that we're having our first big dinner next week. Parker and his wife will be here by then, but as Manseli will be going off for his holiday you and I will have to pitch in and help. I'll give you the list of guests and you can get ofl; the invitations for a start. Anyone you'd like to invite?" Pat hesitated. "I'm out of touch with the friends I used to have in Manbury." "Let me know if you think of anyone. Your father will come, of course." Marion signed a few letters and left Pat 'alone again. Deft fingers filled the envelopes, sealed and stamped them, and Pat set off hatless for the post-box at this end of the village. For the first time she was keenly aware of the ambiguousness of her position at Craigwood. On previous visits she had been merely Mrs. Leigh's secretary, carrying on more or less as she did at Cumberland Square but spending most of her time v/ith her father. With Marion the relationship could never become awkward because Pat was never tempted to cross the path which divides employer from secretary. They were friendly and an occasional intimacy had crept in, but Pat had never forgotten the gap which must exist between them if they -were to''avoid strain. Now, she remembered the older woman's softening towards her the day after Simon had first visited the London house. "Try to regard Simon as a sort of cousin." Nothing more had been said on these lines but Pat sensed a difference in the atmosphere. It was almost as if .they—Marion, Mrs. Cunliffe and even Simon—had come to regard her as a junior member of the family; which, she concluded, was not altogether to her taste, though she couldn't have said why. A cool wind blew along the lane, ruffling her hair and pinking her cheeks. The earth smelted rich and damp and

the leaves rustled together overhead. She liked this par° ticular walk over Craigwood land, the unexpected twist of the road which gave a view of thatched and tiled'roofs some way below, and its perilous descent to the main road. As she reached the village it occurred to Pat that she was now nearer to her father's house than to Craigwood, but he would not be expecting her and she might even be in the way there if, as was often his habit, he had invited other masters down for tea and a chat. She had regretfully dedded to tarn back when a man hastened across the road and held out a detaining hand; a thickset young man with a preposterous quantity of curling brown hair and sparkling Brown eyes. "Miss Gordon!" he exdaimed. "I'm beginning to believe that thoughts can conjure people. I was hoping quite hard that we'd meet again soon." "Were you, Mr. Dyson?" Pat felt inadequate at the moment to deal with the smiling art master. She had'met him twice before, once at the cottage and again at the school cricket match. He was nice and very sincere, but he struck her as a man who needed looking after. His tie, as usual, was knotted too tightly and a little askew, and the collar of his cream silk shirt was crumpled, probably because he bundled his dean laundry i into any available comer of his wardrobe. For a man of twenty-eight his air was decidedly unworldly. "May I walk with you?" he begged. "I'm only going back to Craigwood." "As far as the gates, then?" "If you like." With a pleased smile he fell into step beside her, awkwardly took her arm and just as awkwardly dropped it again. "You haven't enquired why I was hoping to meet you," he said. "Perhaps you're one of those men who hate to leave anything unfinished. You were in the middle of a discourse upon Restoration portrait painters when we parted last Saturday." "Was I? How splendid that you remembered. But how dare I bore you with such a subject! I can't remember what I said—only that you're a most wonderful listener." He looked sideways at the pure lines of her face before adding,

"Someone should paint you like' that, all windblown against a backdoth of summer leaves." She laughed. "Are you angling for a commission?" , "Lord, no," he said soberly. "I'm not a real artist; I only teach the technicalities of art. Though I do believe I'd make a better job of you than I could or anyone else. Will you let me make a sketch of you some time?" "Maybe." Pat could not take him very seriously, but there was much about him which afforded a relief from Craigwood. Hugh Dyson pulled at the more maternal of a woman's heartstrings. "Supposing you tell me why you wanted to see me." "Well, it has to do with Craigwood. Your father told sse there's a picture gallery in the house and that some of the greatest masters are represented there." Pat nodded. "The gallery is kept locked, but I daresay you'd be allowed in. Why don't you approach the bailiff?" "I have, and he tamed me down. 'I may have been dumsy in my request. I'm not always tactful." Hugh's shrug was self-deprecatory. "You see, several of the senior boys are genuinely interested in old paintings, and it seemed a pity to me that there should be many examples so near the school yet unavailable to the pupils. So I asked permission for myself and six boys to see the Leigh collection. The bailiff's reply was that he is in charge of fhe house only when no one is in residence, and that he hardly thought it necessary to add that the ladies and Mr. Leigh would not care to have a horde of schoolboys inside the place." For a minute or so Pat said nothing. She went on climbing at his side and wondering what he expected her to do about it. His square face was serious and absorbed, and all at once it came to her that a sight of the Leigh paintings would mean a great deal to him. "You think I can help you in some way?" she said. "You're living there," he answered. "I do realize that your dealings with Mr. Leigh are similar to mine with the Head, but you're a woman, and if you were to put it to him'he'd at least consider the matter." This statement Pat found vexing. It bore out the gist of her own earlier reflections—that she had become a member of the Leigh household, but necessarily the least im-

portant member. She would like to show Hugh Dyson that his comparison had not been well chosen. "I'll try for you," she said. "Any particular day?" He almost stopped, and stared at her. "Will you really do it. Pat? I may call you Pat, mayn't I? I thought it would be much more difficult to convince you ... to persuade you . . ." He broke off, confused but suddenly happy in a charming, boyish way, and the brown eyes shone brighter than ever as they searched the grey. "I'll be everlastingly grateful. Any day will do, any day at all, preferably straight after school. Can you find out by the week-end?" "I'll ask him this evening." "Then you can tell me on Saturday. Will you go to Exeter with me on Saturday morning? I have to buy some books, and we could have lunch there and find something to do in the afternoon. I'll borrow a car!" After that he took her arm with more confidence, and the smallness of her wrist in his grasp and elbow against his side dispersed his embarrassment. His manner had the complacency of victory. He left her at the great wrought-iron gates, and as she went along the drive Pat was pleased she had decided to help him. She knew that his life had been lonely without excitement, that his shyness disguised a sensitive nature, and she recalled her father saying that Hugh needed to be encouraged to value his own talents. Simon would not refuse the request, she was sure. The boys' visit could be arranged to coincide with his absence from Craigwood, and in any case, the picture gallery could be reached as well from the back of the house as from the front. Involuntarily, as she crossed the lawn, Pat's heart began to beat faster. She would speak to him after dinner tonight, follow him to the'terrace when he went out for a smoke. How fortunate that there were to be no guests this evening — unless he begged his tennis companions to change and come back. But it was unlikely that he would; the Belton twins were vivacious but not conspicuously intelligent, and Simon'soon became impatient of repetitive small talk. Quite a crowd seemed to be having tea in the drawing, room. They were laughing and chattering above the clinking

of cups and plates, and Mansell came from the kitchen with a long-suffering expression and a pot of tea. Pat went straight to the office to dear up the desk. Across the top of the typewriter lay a sheet of paper containing a long list' of names, presumably of people whom Marion proposed to invite to dinner next week. The last few names were not in Marion's round feminine hand; they had been scribbled in by Simon, and for that reason alone Pat could not help reading them first. She took them in, and a feather of chill air blew about her. Her hands were shaking. Four of the names in Simon's writing were completely unknown to her, but sandwiched comfortably between them was one she did know: "Mrs. Max Bristow". • •She drew a sharp breath. Elise Bristow, the woman he had loved, was coming to Craigwood, at Simon's invitation. Pat couldn't take it in, couldn't face fhe implications; they stung'like splinters of glass.' • She still stood there, one hand dendied at her side and the other holding the list, when a sound came from behind her, in the doorv/ay. She didn't tarn round. "Come along, Patricia," said Simon, in those infuriating, mocking tones of his, "or the tea will be all gone, andjou deserve it more than most of us. You've done far too much work for one day." •» His hand touched her shoulder and she stiffened; in a moment of helpless anger she''coui}d have thrust him aside. Habit came to her aid. She twisted and looked at him coolly. "I've finished. The rest can wait till tomorrow." At her tone his brows rose. "How you need that tea!" he murmured, and stood aside to let her pass. Frightened by the upmsh of her own emotions, her sinews contracted with the control she had imposed upon herself, Pat preceded him into the corridor and walked at his side to the lounge. She had forgotten that tonight she had intended asking a favor of Simon; forgotten eveitything save that Elise Bristow had come back into his life. *


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It was next morning, while Marion was snipping flowers in the garden, that Pat spoke to Simon about Hugh Dyson. The two of them were standing some way. off from Marion, 72

near a seat beneath an ancient oak tree, and Simon was staring negligently ^over the grass which swept broadly down to the willows at the edge of the river. He wore riding breeches and a white polo sweater, and the dark hair waved back crisply from the wide tanned forehead. He was looking younger, and his mouth was less indined to become thin with coldness and contempt. Pat had to steel herself before she could speak. "Simon, I've something to ... to ask you." "Have you, my child?" He looked at her lazily. "Some^ thing tremendous?" "No, of course not. It has to do with the school." Still intent upon the view, she gave him details, and finished, "If you consent, perhaps you'll also say which day would be most convenient for Mr. Dyson to bring the boys." Simon took a moment or two before enquiring, "Why are you the go-between? Not taking on the baliff's duties, are you?" "I've told you that Mr. Dyson has already been in touch with the bailiff and been refused. He wouldn't have come to me, otherwise." "The bailiff runs the place, you know." "Not the house — not while you're here!" "Dear me," he murmured sarcastically. "Strung up • about it, aren't we? Is Dyson young and good-looking?" Pat's fingers curled into her palms. "Are you taming him down?" "Heaven forb,id that I should stand in the way of the boys' quest for culture, but I can't help being curious about this exemplary art master. In the first place Manbury never had a specialist of his kind before, and in the second he interests me as a man who seems to have rocked your equilibrium. I presume you and he have found that thing in common which is necessary to friendship. What is it this time?" After a prickly silence, Pat said, "What shall I tell him?" "We'll do the thing properly. I'll telephone the Head and make the arrangement. I won't forget to tell him that all credit for the suggestion must go to the art master. You needn't trouble to see Dyson about it at all." •' "Very well." I •

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She tamed as though to leave him, but he, too, twisted! about, and they walked part of the way to the house without conversing. Then Simon waved towards the stables. "How about % ride? Can you sit a horse?" "Not too well, and I don't possess a riding kit. Besides, £ have work to do." - "My notes? You can ignore them today." "I was going to," she said hardily. "I have to type the invitations for next week's party. Marion wants them to go off today." ^ "Oh, yes." He paused briefly and flickered a glance at her. "Interesting list of guests, isn't it? Sixteen men and fourteen women. We'll be thirty-four altogether. Marion is a marvelous organizer." Another pause, then he queried softly. "What are you upset about?" This was Simon, coolly taking it for granted that he could poke into secrets she daren't even discuss with herself. "I'm not upset," she answered. "You are, Patricia. I noticed it last night but thought you'd overtired yourself at that damned typewriter and got a bit hipped. But's it's still there this morning. Come on, now, what's wrong?" She averted herself. "Nothing's wrong." "Honestly?" "Nothing serious," she amended. "Are you beginning to wish you'd aeves taken on those fflotebooks?" '•'Not at all. Simon . . ." "Yes?" He sounded attentive and obliging. Her voice lowered and so did her eyelids. "Please don't dig all the time. Everyone has problems they'd rather handle in their own way." Perhaps it was the trace of unsteadiness in her voice which silenced him for the next few seconds, or the quiver of red lips and dark lashes might have impressed him with the fact that she was young and pitifully easy to hurt. When he did answer it was unwonted gentleness. "It's a pity one can't be as efficient in one's private life as in holding down a job, but the things which touch one personally can't be dealt with according to a set of rules, and there's no training for them except life itself. No one's

entirely proof against the spears, but you can forge a kind of armor against them. Don't worry to much, little one. Difficulties often smooth themselves out." Pat nodded, unwilling to trust herself to speak. Simon in this mood was dear and dangerous. She could parry his mockery, but his gentleness left her weak enough to lean towards him and weep. A sobbing laugh rose to her throat. How astonished and angry he'd be to find a tearful woman in his arms! "That's right, smile," he said. "And don't straighten up and look so darned superior. Any woman is permitted to ding once in a while." "I'm not dinging!" He grinned. "A moment ago you wouldn't have needed much encouragement." With this remark Pat recovered her composure. Marion had described Elise Bristow as the helpless, clinging type; that had been theteis of her fasdnation for Simon. Well, Patricia Gordon wouldn't ding, much though she longed to, and she was by no means helpless. They were at the foot of the steps, not so far from where Mrs. Cunliffe sat with the big-boned, dependable Charlotte. "I must go in now," said Pat. "Have a good ride." "Don't drive yourself too hard. We'll play some tennis later. So long." He called some pleasantry to his aunt and strode av/ay, and Pat, somewhat less oppressed at heart, got down to roughing out the invitation for Marion's approval. The short talk with Simon set the tone of her day, so that even when it came to addressing Mrs. Bristow as "Deal Elise," she was able, by recalling the brief intimacy which had existed between herself and Simon, to still, the inevitable qualm of uneasiness. CT^? A l& ^ir TO n? TO T ^ TUT f" JriAA-IcK Ulljjil IN the middle .of the afternoon she changed into a linen suit and walked the two miles to her father's cottage. It was cooler today, and overcast, and the wind sent eddies of last year's leaves whirling across the road to become imprisoned among the fast-growing weeds and grass. By the time she

reached (he green gate a drizzle was being driven horizontally on the breeze. Today, Edmund Gordon was alone. Mr. Rathem did all his after^school work in his empty dassroom and seldom turned up at the house before five, and any afternoon when Mr. Gordon did not happen to be entertaining his colleagues and friends was Mrs. Moss's afternoon off; she came back at six to prepare aa evening meal. So Pat made the tea and brought it to the comfortable sitting-room. Her father piled the books he had been marking on the floor beside him and relaxed with a cup of -tea and a chocolate cake. "It's funny how most schoolmasters look typical of their profession," Pat commented, regarding him affectionately. "I believe anyone seeing you for the first time would know at once that you're the English master at a school like Manbury. And Ratty couldn't be anything but 'history' with a nostalgia for Roman Britain." He smiled. "What about Dyson? He looks more like the school half-back than a master." "He's at the beginning. He hasn't yet become moulded by the andent and honorable stone walls." She stirred her tea, considering. "Hugh's appearance belies him. He's terribly keen on art, and I daresay he'll grow into someone sather nice but slightly eccentric. I hope he'll marry." "Do you?" he said, amused. "Why?" "He needs someone to whom he's frightfully important, someone who'll tactfully ensure that he doesn't wear odd socks or put a smoking pipe into his pocket. Is he a good master?" "He hasn't much idea of disdpline but he's discovered both a sculptor and a painter among the boys, so he must be doing an excellent job." Thoughtfully, he went on, "He hasn't quite enough self-confidence. I try to help him, but after all, compared with him I'm an established fogey who's forgotten the trials of youth. Oh, yes, I am, my dear" — as she made to protest. "Dyson's not nearly conceited enough about his capabilities. Living in the masters' quarters at the school is not too good for him, either. A man of his character should have frequent changes in his surroundings." 76

Pat told him about the projected visit of the art master and several boys to the Craigwood picture gallery, and went on to ask about the other masters and their wives. Later, casually, she turned to the topic which had been uppermost in her mind since yesterday. "Do the Bristows still live at Dolbridge?" She knew they did, but the subject had to be opened somehow. Her father set down his cup. "The Bristows," he echoed. "Dolbridge still belongs to them and Max is mostly there, I think, but his wife isn't too strong. She spends a lot of time in the south of France." "Are there any children?" "No. It's not a happy marriage, though I've heard that Max is fond of his wife. He's off to Ireland this weekend to buy horses." That explained why only Elise was to be invited to Craigwood. Pat recollected the shrewd slant of Simon's eyes as he mentioned the "interesting list of guests", and wished she knew whether his inclusion of Elise were a deliberate attempt to show anyone who happened to have a long memory that she had ceased to matter to him. But somehow Pat could not recondle such a sentiment with what she knew of Simon. If it were true that the woman could no longer rouse him, he would not trouble to seek her out. Was he preparing to test himself, or had he, too, heard that Elise was not happy with Max Bristow? How did a man feel upon learning that the woman he had loved had made a disastrous marriage with another man? The ache of fright came again into Pat's throat. Until now the ten or twelve miles to Dolbridge had seemed an ample distance from Craigwood, but with a few strokes of his pen Simon had brought the place shatteringly dose. "Why the sudden interest in the Bristows?" asked her father. "You've never met them, have you?" Pat shrugged. "No, but Mrs. Bristow is coming to the party next week. I just wondered about her." It seemed that this stirred no memories in Mr. Gordon; gossip mostly passed him by, and these particular rumors were five or six years old. "I last saw her two summers ; ago when she and Max came to a school gymkhana," he said. "She's exceptionally good-looking."

Pat had already guessed that Elise had been and possibly still was a beautiful woman. Simon had respect for lovely things; he never said much about them but he never derided them, which was proof that beauty touched him fairly deeply. One couldn't imagine him falling in love with a plain woman. A little sickened, Pat took the tray to the kitchen, washed and put away the china. Back in the sitting-room she found her father once more immersed in his exercise books. She bent and kissed him. He was the sound, stable thing in this tilting world. "Good-bye, my dear," he said. "If it's raining you'd better wrap yourself in my mac." I shall expect you on Sunday." Tiny spots still drifted off the wind and the sky hung over the village like a cold leaden lid. The drizzle was negligible — it might never develop into real rain —but Pat decided to take the shorter path to Craigwood through the wood and over the river. She left her father's raincoat hanging in the hall because he was bound to need it soon himself. A rainy spell seemed to be setting in. The first part of the wood was all beech trees. The Maabury district was famous for its great prodigal beeches. But farther on the trees became more varied, first slim birches creeping in, then smooth ash and crab-apple, wild plum smothered in brambles, and, in the damp hollows, the pale green of young willows. In these woods Pat had played and picnicked and sought wild flowers; she had cut stems of pussy-willow and eaten wild strawberries, had told the pungent-smelling earth her joys and it had soaked up her childish sorrows. Walking swiftly along the dim path she felt better thaa she had at the cottage. The rain was coming faster but she felt only an occasional cold plop on her scalp and linenclad shoulders; unless it poured the branches were adequate protection. One felt safe among the friendly trees, safe and unassailable. Troubles were no more than a root arching in the path or a twig that caught at the skirt. Rain pattered into the trees overhead, making forest music, the leaves became burdened and tipped away their surplus. Pat's hair darkened with moisture and her shoulders were cold with it, but she was not unduly concerned. Hee

suit was easy to wash and at least two years old,' and summer rain after a day of wind and weighted skies had an invigorating quality to be found in nothing else. She loved the smell and feel of the atmosphere. Suddenly she heard a shout and stopped dead. Simon was approaching at a lope, a bundle clasped close to his belted raincoat. He^was still ten yards away when she saw that he •was annoyed and a little out of breath. "You idiot!" he exclaimed. "Here, put this on or you'll hook a chill." He was holding out her waterproof, but Pat, temporarily witless, was aware only of his streaming hair and face. And absurdly it came to her that the rain suited him, as well as her. "How did you get here?" she asked dazedly. He made a sound of exasperation, felt her shoulder and dragged her dise to a tree trunk for more shelter. The same hand unceremoniously raked back her hair, as if she were a child. "You're drenched! Take off that jumper thing and get into this." Startled, she stared at him. He flung out an irritable hand and turned his back to her. "For Pete's sake, move! I'll give you just thirty seconds!" Pat knew he meant it. Swiftly, and unconscously smiling, she struggled out of the linen jacket and slipped on the raincoat. She was fumbling to do up the buttons when the humor of the situation smote her more forcibly, and she began to laugh, almost uncontrollably. "Extremely funny," he said, pushing the hood of the waterproof up over her head. "I suppose it never occurred to you to go out prepared for rain. It's been threatening all day." "I don't mind a wetting. How did you know where to find me?" He had hold of her arm and was making her walk fast; go fast that at once she began to get hot. "I went up to the school this afternoon. Seeing that the visit of the art class to our picture gallery seemed important . to you, I thought it best to conduct the matter personally. I had tea with the Head and made the arrangements, and as -

TO

I was near yoar father's place I called there oa my way home. He said you'd just left, so I eacpected to pick you up on the road. By the time I reached the house it was raining pretty hard, and as they hadn't seen anything of you I guessed you'd chosen to come this way." "So you grabbed my waterproof and came after me. That was sweet of you, Simon, even if you are a bit of a bear about it. Thanks wry much." "Reserve your thanks till tomorrow," he warned her. "If I hear one sneeze out of you I'll spank you." She wanted to laugh again. This was marvellous, tramping along with Simon's arm hard against her side, his shoulder firmly behind and above her own. It made one believe in mirades. After this she would love trees in the the rain even more than she had loved them before. Simon was saying, "At the school I met the ingenuous Dyson. Is that what appeals to you about him — his ingenuousness?" "I wouldn't describe him that way," she said. "He simply doesn't happen to be very interested in himself as a person." "You're wrong there." Simon spoke dearly but without emphasis. "I'd say that a man who flushes easily is a sight too taken up with himself, particularly when he happens to have the artistic temperament. A fellow of his age should have learned the elementary principles of selfcontrol." "But you're flinty, Simon," she told him, "and I don't suppose you were ever self-consdous. Hugh has always lived in a small world which hadn't much time for him. Before coming to Manbury he was master at a prep. school, and before that he did a lot of solitary studying. Yet he'si essentially the type who should not be too much alone." She had to pick her way carefully so she could not look mp at him, but she recognized the sarcastic note when he replied; ^ "You'd like to mother him, wouldn't you, Patrida? Take care of him when he has a cold, remind him gently that present-day artists don't wear long hair and baggy trousers, and use his tweed-covered chest to lean upon when you're tired." He helped her to sidestep a, soggy patch in the path.

"You're well aware, of course, that he's on the way to falling in love with you?" It took Pat a moment or two to absorb this, and then it was so fantastic that she straightway rejected it. "He can't be. I've only seen him three times!" "You underrate your charms, my sweet," he said, his tone as cool as the rain which washed about them. "Besides being a career girl you're cosy and desirable. Don't you want Dyson to fall in love with you ?" Cosy and desirable? Was Simon still mocking? "What good would come of it?" she said. "Exactly. That was how I saw it, too," he stated evenly. "So when he mentioned that you'd arranged to meet him on Saturday, 'I said that now he had permission to come to Graigwood, a talk with you about it was hardly necessary." "Oh. I was going to Exeter with him." "He confessed as much, but you're well out of that. It's going to be a wet week-end." "But it wasn't kind, Simon. He'll think I've turned him down." "In effect, you have." "But I dislike hurting people, and in this case it isn't a bit necessary. I could have gone with him and probably enjoyed it." ' "My dear Patricia," he said patronizingly, "an occasional flick of the whip now may save the man tortures later on, Far better to ward off a proposal from him than to have to tear his heart. You must admit the wisdom of that." A pause, v/hile his disengaged hand shoved back his hair and pulled the tamed-up collar doser about his dun. Then he asked conversationally, "How would you like to marry a schoolmaster and spend the rest of your days in Manbury?" "The two don't have to go together," she replied, carefully casual, "but I don't mind owning to a liking for Manbury, and I manage to get on very well with schoolmasters." "No hankering yet for the southern seas?" "I never yearn for the impossible." Which was not quite correct. Pat would not have been normal if she had not dreamed, and longed for those dreams, however unlikely, to come true. But there were things one could never reveal to Simon.

"Then you must be aa exceptionally unusual woman," he said and, without changing his tone, "Are your feet wet?" After that his remarks were infrequent and impersonal. He hurried her out of the wood and over the bridge at & pace which left her no breath for talking, and as they came within sight of the house he made her run and mount the steps two at a time. In the hall he dropped the soaked linen jacket over hes coat-sleeve. Instinctively she moved towards the great log fire, but Simon caught her elbow. "Upstairs!" he commanded. "A hot bath and dry youe hair." She smiled at him, her skin shining with rain, grey eyes still tender and unguarded from the outdoor duskiness. With the hood fallen back from her wet and rufBed hair and her mouth parted she looked young and untouched. He looked down at her for a long moment and made a movement which, in another man, might have been a preliminary to a kiss. Then his mouth thinned. "Get going," he said abruptly. Without a word she tamed and ran up the stairs. * * * * It was not Pat's habit to sing in the bath but this evening she caught herself humning. No particular tune; merely a medley which must have been coursing through her subconscious mind to accompany her happily chaotic consdous thoughts. There was a fire in her roorcL and when she had towelled and set her hair she sat in front of it, her dressing-gown snug about her, her slippered toes toasting on the stone curb. Odd that she should have awakened so miserable this morning to a day which had tamed out to be more than ordinarily bright. The rain beyond the window, the wind soughing in the trees, served only to heighten her cautious happiness. She wondered, foolishly, if she looked as "cosy and desirable" as she felt. Supposing Simon were to come in now . . . She gave a little laugh and tried to switch hes thoughts. The first knock at the door was that of a servant sent by Simon with a cocktail. The warmth of the liquid in bss

throat, the red glow of the fire and the encompassing comfort that was Craigwood, bemused Pat into a state of delicious expectancy. Nothing ever remained static and tonight only that which was good could happen. A youthful conclusion which had no basis in fact. When the second rap on the door was immediately followed by Marion's entering the room and decisively coming to stand beside the fire, Pat felt too beautifully lethargic to do more than smile and indicate the ether chair. But something in Mrs. Leigh's face, an expression of sharp worry which had connection with the slim locked fingers and braced back, communicated itself to the room. Pat drew into her chair, dasped her own hands tightly, and waited. "They told me you'd been caught in the rain. Dried out?" asked Marion, obviously expecting no answer. She touched the cameo brooch at the neck of her severelycut'mulberry silk frock and sank with a sigh into the chair. For a minute she stared into the flaming heart of the logs, as if putting a question, and then, as usual, her fingers stretched to the heat. Her head turned and she looked straight at Pat. "I had to come and speak to you, because . . ." She tailed off and started again. "Why do so few things materialize as one plans them ? We're not asking such a lot, are we, yet there isn't the least sign that we'll ever get what we want." "Simon?" said Pat. "Yes, Simon." Another sigh. "Didn't it occur to you, when you were typing those letters, that Elise Bristow is the woman we once hoped he'd marry?" Pat nodded, and a distinct chill feathered along her spine. "Weren't you aware her name was on the list?" "No; it amazed me when I saw it. I wrote out the list and gave it to Simon. I didn't see it again till I went to the office to sign those letters this afternoon. Has he spoken to you about her, Pat?" "Of course not. Why should he?" "It wouldn't look so serious if he did mention her name, ,but to invite her here without saying a word . . ." She paused, and went on moodily, "I haven't seen her for 83

years aad she's new been a guest here since Simon wea£ away. She'll leap to condusions." "Do you think he hasn't seen her yet?" "It's beastly. I don't know what to think." The cosiness was shattered. Pat's toes burned, the backs of her feet were icy, yet she resolutely reminded herself that nothing was changed from half an hour ago. She had known most of this then. "Simon may be doing this deliberately. After all, it's going to be a fairly big party and there'll be quite a crowd to whom he'll be able to demonstrate how little she bothers him now." "My dear," said Marion wearily, "if you knew Simon as well as I do you wouldn't give that angle a single thought. He doesn't care what ethers think of him. I'm not afraid that he'll fall in love with Elise all over again, but merely seeing the woman and remembering what for him were her perfections will put other women out of the miming. She's twenty-seven now, and probably lovelier than ever. She always needed cosseting, and no doubt still does." Marion shrugged hdplessly. "She should have lived fifty years ago. Girls aren't like that nowadays — the pace of living won't allow it — yet there's something about that type which gets nnder the skin of a man and rouses all the protective instincts. It makes me angry." "She's married," Pat put in weakly. "That's little comfort. The danger lies in her being Sitere, among the other women. Simon will watch and compare — he won't be able to help it — and the other girls will come out the losers." There was a silence, a queer molten silence. Something nnquenchable blazed up in Pat, so that she had to spring to her feet and thrust aside her chair. "It's hard lines about Simon, isn't it! Why should he have the pick of the women in the neighborhood when he hasn't even a heartwhole love to offer to one of them ? Do you think he deserves it? Doesn't he realize that at least half his attraction is his background, his money? Well, I think it's about time he did! You want him to marry because you hope that marriage would keep him here, or at least provide the place with an heir, but what about the sroman? I suppose she has to be suitably humble and

yielding, and eternally grateful fbt the privilege of being married to Simon Leigh!" "Why, Pat!" Marion leaned back, staring at the youthful, scarlet cheeks. "I'd no idea you felt like that. What you say is true — Simon isn't likely to have much more than a loyal affection for the woman he might marry, but she wouldn't come out too badly, because whatever he lacked in the way of deep, unflagging love, his fidelity could be counted upon. I'm sure of that. And in time she might become indispensable to him." "Meanwhile she has to be the second-best!" Marion replied slowly, her glance unswervingly upon Pat's face. "Possibly, but there are some who wouldn't object to that. Simon at his best has a lot to give: kindness, companionship, security, and I'll wager he'd make a more than satisfactory lover." Pat's anger died as swiftly as it had risen. She felt drained and dull and not too sure that she had spoken sensibly. Anyway, that had been no way to address one's employer. Marion must think her mad. She moved round to the back of her chair and lifted, the blue frock which had been placed upon the bed. "I don't know why I flared like that. I'm sorry," she said in flat tones. "For your sake I hope he'll marry and settle her, but I doubt if he will." "Aunt Alison thinks otherwise." Marion hesitated thoughtfully. "She's old — some things are dearer to her than they are to us, and some are more obscure. In her opinion it's foolish to surround him with eligible young women — she says that if Simon comes across one that he likes he'll keep a rein on her himself, without any assistance. She may be right, but I hate to take chances. We've so'little time." She stood up. "I still can't contemplate Elise Bristow without feeling she's a menace, but it seems we shall have to face the fact that Simon intends to be friendly with her." As soon as Marion had gone Pat slipped into her dress. It was still raining, but the noise of the wind had a more sinister note; it seemed to get right inside the room and to echo in the corners like moans of warning. Pat shivered. The wind reminded her of Christmas, and she wondered where they would all be by then. 85

CHAPTER NINE THE weather continued blustery and sunless with squalls of rain that scoured the countryside and filled the dykes. Old Mrs. Chard, who ran the combined post office and tack-shop in the village, still insisted that it would be a hot summer. Her prophecy relied on several time-tested s\gns in earth and sky, and most people were anxious to believe in it, for last winter had been a long and dreary one and soon Manbury would be holding the Summer Fair. At Craigwood there could be no tennis or lounging in the garden. Mrs. Cunliffe and Charlotte played many games of cards in the drawing-room, and Marion and Pat were busy compiling a menu for the party and making arrangements for additional help in die kitchen. Mansell, who preferred being caretaker in an empty house to the duties of manservant in an occupied one, departed for his holiday, and Parker and his wife arrived from London to take over. Edna came, too, full of awe and a nev/ song she had learned while staying with a sister at Margate. There was plenty for Pat to do that week. A faultless dinner for thirty-four people was a huge problem, even at Craigwood where there was an abundance of dairy produce, vegetables and early fruits; and the house had to look its best, as well. The hall, when the village handy-man had finished polishing the floor and panelling and Parker had rearranged the massive chairs and sofas to Mrs. Cunliffe's liking, looked as huge and baronial as in the days when the first Leighs had flung wide their hospitable doors to the gentry of the neighborhood. The drawing-room was magnificent, and at night the chandeliers shed brilliant light upon the blue and gold damask chairs, the gleaming old tables, the rich Aubusson carpet. The grand piano was the only modern piece in the room, and cleverly disguised by threefeet tall Chinese vases which were to be filled with yellow and gold hothouse blooms. The pianist would appear as if floating in a golden bower, / That thought came back to Pat as she supervised the placing of the giant blossoms the morning of the party. She had a most queer sensation inside and her appetite was

non-existent but no one had any time foe mjoae else today. Even Aunt Alison was making last-minute changes to the bedrooms which had been allocated as rest-rooms for the ladies, and Simon had disappeared ia the burgundy car and would be out to lunch. The frantic morning eased into afteroGca quiet. Upoa Simon's instructions everyone, induding the servants, was to lie down for at least two hours. Pat lay oa her bed and listened to the birds and the rustling branches; she was almost tired enough to sleep, but each time she dozed an unpleasant throbbing of her pulses became unbearably loud and she came wide awake to find herself ezdted and empty and horribly apprehensive. Marion had persuaded her to wear white that evening, and had even provided a spray of speckled orchids. Her own gown was of navy watered silk, an excellent foil for the shaped mby and diamond necklace with matching earrings. Aunt Alison's erect figure looked superb in a tightsleeved sage green gown, and Charlotte had created a masterpiece of the plentiful white hair; it was drawn up m soft waves from the thin aristocratic face and surmounted by a small and dainty tiara. When Pat went down to the hall the other two women and Simon were already there. Nothing about him suggested that his heart might have quickened with antidpation, and his hands, as he poured drinks and presented them to the ladies, were as steady as ever. Presumably he had already complimented his aunt and sister-in-law on their attire, for he merely flickered his greenish gaze over Pat's white slendemess and gave her the suspidon of^ an approving wink. He must be feeling good. He was looking good, too; heartbreakingly handsome and every inch the suave host. Guests began to arrive, most of them people who had been to the house during the past week or so, but some who were, strangers to Pat. She took the women's wraps and handed them over to the nervous Edna, and joined in the conversation when necessary. She saw Simon greet her father and knew a moment of gladness that they liked each other — these two men she loved above other men. . She was near the great carved oak door, only a yard or so behind Parker who was stationed there because the door ^told not be left wide in such a wind. There was a

moment's respite while the newest arrivals were led towards one of the fires, and more drinks were served. Then Parker, his hearing intent upon the sound of still another car braking at the foot of the steps outside, ceremoniously drew back the door. There came the sound of light footsteps in the wide porch, and suddenly, Elise Bristow was framed in the Gothic doorway, gold silk dress blowing, gold velvet wrap held tight to her throat by white, pointed fingers, and the golden cap of her hair stirring only slightly at each temple. She came into the hall and stood still. Simon stepped forward, took her hand and bowed over it. For a horrid second Pat thought he would kiss that white wrist. "Hallo, Elise. How are you?" he said conventionally. "So glad you could come. Did you drive yourself?" She shook her head, smilingly. "I still haven't the nerve to drive, but we have a servant who acts as chauffeur when I need one." Her voice was breathless and eager. "How nice of you to invite me. I was so surprised, Simon, it's — it's been such a long time." "Yet you look no different," he said, "unless it's more golden and beautiful than ever. Let me have your coat." Woodenly, like one taking the leading role in a nightmare, Pat moved, to receive the soft burden of velvet. She held out an arm, and smiled. Simon said, "Elise, this is Patrida Gordon. I don't think you know her. Mrs. Bristow, Pat. You two ought to find something in common." Pat was incapable of deciding whether he was getting at her in a calculated, satirical way, or merely being polite. She murmured a word or two and went away to place the wrap in Edna's care. It was quite a few minutes before her courage took her back to the hall, and inevitably she gravitated towards the group presided over by Marion. From where she sat between her father and a brother of the Belton twins, she could see Simon away at the other side of the hall, leaning carelessly beside the fireplace and smiling down at the exquisite golden woman he once had loved. Against the rich dark panelling they appeared isolated ' from the rest of the company, each absorbed in the other.

It seemed to Pat thai- she would never be able to shut oat from her mind that symmetrical, heart-wrenching picture. * * • « * The dinner went off superlatively well. The immense length of the dining-table, scintillating with silver and glass, embroidered down the centre with oblong bowls of delicate white flowers, and lit by several tall branched candlesticks, stretched away like a silver-gilt path in the dim room. Simon reigned at the head of the table, and his aunt at the foot, and conversation flowed ceaselessly, like wavelets on a friendly shore. Pat answered her companions when they addressed her, but whether she wanted to or not, it was Elise, seated diagonally on the opposite side of the table, whom she watched. She saw the smooth, ineffectual fingers prod at food with a fork but raise very little of it to the small, reddened mouth. She saw the eyes, a dear, sapphire blue, tarn their baffled and pleading expression towards Simon; and she could not avoid witnessing the faint, pretty flush which rose under the pale skin when Simon caught hei glance and smiled. Pat got the impression that Elise had been completely amazed and perhaps alarmed to receive an invitation from Mrs. Leigh. She might even have been afraid, temporarily, to accept it. She was the type of woman who is often frightened and is encouraged in nervousness by the protective male. She had escaped a woman's usual duties of running a home and children, had never had to earn a living or get along without servants; she spent much of her time idling in a warmer dimate. Her quick, smiling reaction to a remark from one of her neighbors showed that Elise was automatically and infinitely feminine. One could imagine that she loved gaiety, but not too much of it; that she could respond to love-making so long as it remained gentle and adoring; no white-hot emotions for Elise. She had a sweet, tentacle-like charm, yet Pat could not for the life of her imagine how such a woman had hdd in thrall the terse and violent Simon. But such things did happen, she sighed inwardly, for was not Elise married to the large and tough Max Bristow? Simon and Max were of different breeds, the one taut-

sinewed and aquiline of feature, the other heavy and muscular, wonderful with horses but less successful with women. Both were intensely masculine, and Pat had her father's word for it that Max was fond of his wife. The very thought that Simon might find himself slipping back into a condition in which Elise typified all that he deemed lovely in a woman left Pat tense and trembling. It mustn't happen. It mustn't. It was a relief when Aunt Alison gave the signal for the ladies to move. Pat went from the room and up the staircase with Honour Willings, an intelligent young woman who confided, during the following half-hour over a cigarette, that she wanted to be a doctor. It was much later, when the guests, exhausted with eating, drinking and dandng, were beginning to depart, that Pat had a private word with Elise Bristow. Elise was adjusting her wrap in front of the mirror in the bedroom when Pat, having said good night to her father, came in to get the coat of one of the older women who was too weary to dimb the stairs. With the black coat over her arm, Pat paused. "There's a light over the mirror," she said, involuntarily behaving as everyone else did with Elise. "Would you like me to switch it on?" "No, thank you," came the soft, careful reply. Elise tamed, her small face colorless except for the rouge shading over the cheekbones. "I always look ghastly when I'm tired." "What a pity. The party has hung on rather late. You could have gone earlier." "Simon would have been disappointed." Elise drew a lipstick across her mouth and gathered her purse. "Are you related to the Leighs?" she asked. "Not in the least. What made you think I might be?" "The way they treat you — and you live here in the house, don't you?" "I'm Mrs. Leigh's secretary." Slowly but visibly Elise relaxed. Her chin tilted slightly. "Is that so? I've heard of people who become secretaries and companion's and eventually make a good thing out of it."

For a few seconds Pat was stunned. So this delicate little thing had daws, though why she should trouble to unsheath them now was beyond comprehension. Maybe tiredness had taxed her control, or the meeting with Simon might not have reached her expectations. "I've heard of them, too," said Pat, "but I've never yet met one. I believe they're mainly fictitious. Shall we go down?" Simon was waiting at the foot of the staircase. He grinned at Pat and took Elise to say good night to his aunt and Marion. Pat quivered. She still had the boneless feeling of Elise's proximity. The guests were gone and Pat was collecting plates and glasses from the far recesses of the hall and drawing-room while Parker loaded and carried away the trays. She heard Mrs. Cunliffe and Mrs. Leigh call good night and answered them as cheerfully as she was able. She was about to switdi off the drawing-room lights when her glance was attracted to a tiny column of smoke from under a low table. She flew across to it, sank down upon her knees, and snatched up the smouldering cigarette butt. HOW dare anyone be so careless in the home of another! This beautiful carpet . . ." "Playing hunt the thimble all by yoursdf?" enquired Simon at her back. "Come on, Patrida, it's too late for that." He held her shoulders and lifted her, but the moment she was on her feet she bent away from him to drop the butt into an ashtray. Still quivering, she pointed. •"Just look! It's burnt a hole in the carpet. Wouldn't you think any man would have more about him than to do a thing like that!" "It might have been a woman. Lucky you noticed it, aay pet." She twisted to confront him, a muscle working in her throat. "Can't you get angry about it! Through someone's carelessness the carpet is burnt. They don't make carpets like that any more." "It's a tiny hole, and I daresay it can be repaired. It's hardly important when you consider that we might all have gone to bed and been smoked alive." His grip tensed

On the arm he held. "Stop shaking. It isn't important, I tell you!" Pat wrenched her arm free; her face was white, her grey eyes blurred. "Nothing at Craigwood is important to you, is it? A priceless carpet can be ruined but you couldn't be bothered to care. You never think of anyone or anything but yourself. You don't care whom you hurt so long as your own conceit is satisfied . , ." "Hold on, now." He spoke with peremptory calmness. "Is all this because of a pea-sized hole in the carpet, or are you letting out a lot of pent-up steam?" He didn't wait for a reply. "You're flat out, Patricia, and a little unnerved by the enormity, of what might have happened if you hadn't discovered that cigarette. I know you've been annoyed with me since I stopped your little outing with Dyson last Saturday, but it's not worth getting keyed up about. If I'd guessed it might really hurt you I wouldn't have done it. Believe it or not, I want to see you happy, and if Dyson makes you that way you'd better have him." The words sobered Pat. She grabbed at them as a drowning man grabs at a lifeline. She hadn't given herself away, after all. Simon had conduded that she had a weakness for Hugh Dyson, and it was safeir and much less harrowing to let him go on thinking that way. Anything rather than have him suspect that she was vanquished by whatever it was that had existed between himself and Elise Bristow. "So long as you understand," she said thinly. There was a silence during which neither moved. Then Simon pushed his hands rather forcibly into his pockets and moved away. "Yes, I understand, Patricia. You can make it up with Dyson when he brings the boys here tomorrow. They're due at four o'clock." He went to the door, and when she had passed him he snapped off the lights. "Good night," he 'said. "You'd better lie late in the morning." * « » » Next day Marion and Aunt Alison expressed themselves satisfied with che party. Neither of them mentioned Elise, probably because both were trying to forget that she had been here, in this house, and had looked as charming in the setting as she had five'years ago. 92

Pat helped Parker to wash the glassware and polish the . silver, and she went upstairs with Edna to share the dusting of the bedrooms. But at last it was all done, and she sought refuge in the office. There were a few letters to write and the last of Simon's notes to type. She had no inclination for either, but today the sun was making fitful appearances, so that the view through the window had an enthralling tranquility, which was an incentive to stay and work, and occasionally to break off to brood upon the gold and green of the alders and chestnuts. Hugh and his contingent drove up in the school station wagon promptly at four. His tweeds had been newly pressed and his thick hair slicked with cream to disguise the need of a hair-cut, and if his tie was a shade off-side that much absentmindedness was tolerable in an art master. Parker served tea and large schoolboy buns in the garden, and thereafter conducted the tour. Upon meeting Pat as the tea things were being deared, Hugh had gazed at her and said, "Couldn't you come with us? There's no fun in showing off one's knowledge of good paintings only to boys." So Pat drifted along the picture gallery, listening to Hugh's reverent explanations and to the boys' pertinent, if less respectful, innuendos. When the group returned from the back of the house to the drive, Marion came out for a friendly exchange with Hugh. Simon must have been indoors, just the other side of the drawing-room window, but doubtless he saw no need to make an appearance. By allowing the visit he had done his duty, and if he could help it he would do no more. , The boys were in the station wagon and Hugh preparing to take his place behind the wheel, when Pat said, "I'm sorry about last Saturday, Hugh. It wasn't my fault." He brightened considerably and the sparkle she was beginning to know very well came into his eyes. "I hoped it wasn't; that's the worst of living with your employer, isn't it? May I see you again soon?" "I always have Sunday tea with my father." "Would he mind if I made a third?" "Try it once and see what happens." 93

He gave a short happy laugh and edged into his seat. For the first time today Pat found herself smiling. Hugh was so easy to handle, so easy to please. He did come to her father's cottage the following Sunday, and Edmund Gordon welcomed him with quirt and sincere cordiality and straightway sent him to assist Pat in the kitchen. Hugh made the toast and at intervals marvelled at the simplicity of the culinary arrangements. "I haven't lived in a house since I was a child," he said, interestedly taking all the egg pans from a poacher and replacing them in their circles. ''I was eight when I went to boarding school and I used to spend vacations in an hotel with my uncle; did it for years. Since I've grown up it's been small-town digs." Pat looked at him, thinking how much he had missed. "After that, living at the school must be grand." "It is." Hugh was tipping one batch of slices from the toaster and inserting another. "I've two very comfortable rooms and a porter brings my meals." His voice tinged with self-consciousness he went on, -"The Head's wife came to my quarters the other day to see if I found the place to my liking — apparently she's used to new masters complaining, and I hadn't. As a matter of fact there isn't a thing to complain about. She told me that if I marry I can move into a three-roomed bungalow-!^ His head was studiously bent. "Decent of her, wasn't it?" "Yes, she's nice. The bungalows are fairly new — an innovation since my father started at Manbury." He ploughed on. "She said that the Head himself asked her to come and see how I was getting along. He's pleased with my work and wants me to settle at the school." "I'm not surprised." Pat was filling the teapot, setting it upon the trolley. "'My father says you're making the whole school art-consdous, and have even discovered a couple of potential geniuses. Reach me the tea-cosy from the dresser, will you?" He was in such a hurry to oblige that the comer of his jacket tipped over the toaster. A scrambling moment and then everything was righted, but Hugh was red and selfdeprecating. "Poor Aing about the house, aren't I?" he said. "It's due to having had no practice, but I suppose I'd get inr' 94

te way of it. It only takes an average amount of common sense." "And a sense of humor," she added kindly. "Will you push the trolley into the sittting-room, Hugh?" He ate a large quantity of toast and several cakes, and Pat suspected that he was one of those men who seldom give proper attention to food when they are alone. He was really hungry, and she thought impatiently that such helplessness in a man was all wrong. It was his duty to eat the meals brought by the porter, not to daydream and forget them. Nor should any man need a woman to keep him normal. Edmund Gordon was finishing his second cup of tea when the matter of the summer vacation cropped up. It was Pat who put the first question. "Darling, are you still going off to the Lake District?" "I think so." Her father rested an interrogative glance npon Hugh. "What about you, Dyson? Are your plans unchanged?" "Yes, sir. That is .. ." He hesitated and carefully placed his cup upon the trolley. "To hike around the Lake District and do some sketching sounds great to me. If nothing intervenes I'll be glad to go with you." "It may be your last chance as a bachelor," Mr. Gordon returned, his eyebrow quizzically cocked. "There aren't many women who'd take to that type of holiday." "Oh, I don't know," said Pat reasonably. "Hugh may not get' married for a few years yet, but when he does he's bound to pick a woman with similar interests to his own; even if she doesn't sketch she might like to read while he does, and offer admiration whenever he slacks." "I wouldn't mind giving up the sketching," Hugh answered, looking at her as if he and she were alone. "I'd have so much that counted more." Mentally scolding herself for unwittingly leading him on, Pat made room near the teapot for her cup. For a moment she dare not tarn her father's way, but when he contentedly stretched his legs she knew that what danger there had been was past. He hadn't realized a danger existed, bless his heart. "I think we'll arrange to leave at the beginning of August," he said. "I wish you could go with us, Pat, but 95

as you can't, it will be pleasant to know that you'll still be here when we return. We must work out a route, Dyson; I'll find my large-scale map of the district." ••• • The talk became impersonal, and even when Hugh later accompanied her to the gates of Craigwood he made no further references to relinquishing .his bachelor state. Probably he felt that he had gone far enough for one day, but they did not part till he had fixed up another meeting. For all his abstractedness, he could be tenacious of the things which offered happiness; that was how he had eventually arrived at Manbury School. Pat thought she understood the situation in which he found himself. For the first time in his life he had a home which could, if he wished, be his till he retired from teaching. Though younger than his colleagues, he got along well with them, and imparting knowledge to boys who were old enough to appreciate the arts even if, at times, they were facetious about them, was by no means boring. And Manbury was beautiful; the emerald playing fields, the lichened walls of the college, the village, the snug little farms which nestled everywhere in the countryside, the willow-draped river, all exuded peace and fullness. Possibly the very spirit of the place made a man want to marry and become part of it. She knew that feeling; 'she also knew that before long she must be ruthlessly honest with Hugh. CHAPTER- TEN

rHE following week Pat completed the fair copy of Simon's notes, which had now been moulded into the form of a lengthy report. She checked it thoroughly, unmoved by its atmosphere of sultry and exotic adventure. She had got over the first thrill at the wonders of fhe Coral Sea, and now experienced only an antipathy for the slumbrous islands of Melanesia and the clear, brilliantly-alive waters. She loathed them because they had claimed Simon once and would do so again. The day the report was finished and placed in Simon's room, Elise Bristow came to Craigwood. She had known that Simon would be out, she said; he had told her as much

yesterday, when he had come -over to Dolbridge to inspect Max's new horses. But he had left behind his cigarettecase and she rather thought that as it was an old friend he would miss it. No, she wouldn't stay, thanks; and would Pat please give her regards to Mrs. Leigh and Mrs. Cunliffe. Long after Elise had purred away in the long car, her expensive perfume lingered in the hall.-Pat walked from window to window, fighting a surge of bitter emotion. So he was following up his meeting with Elise; he had waited, of course, till Max should be there, for that rigid code of his would not permit his calling on a married woman during her husband's absence. But as soon as he'd heard that Max was back he hadn't been able to keep away. What did he hope to gain from seeing Elise in her own-domestic surroundings? Would a man like Simon purposely torment himself with what might have been? Pat tried not to believe it. Simon was behaving circumspectly, treating the Bristows as neighbors and friends. For him, this stay at Craigwood was merely an interlude, and it probably amused him to lay old ghosts and rumors. - When Marion came down her gaze went at once to the slim monogrammed cigarette-case on the centre table. She took it up and lifted her head. "Did Simon leave this here?" Stiffly intent upon the chestnut branches out in the garden Pat explained. Her final word fell into a pool of silence. "So that's that," said Marion tonelessly, at last. "We've filled the house with 'attractive girls, but it seems that no one can take the place of Elise. If she were free he wouldn't marry her, because he'd never quite trust her again, but apart from the lack of intergrity she's everything he wants in a woman. Unless Craigwood itself can keep him, we've lost, Fat." Pat turned from the window, thus shadowing her face. "Mrs. Leigh, can't we go back to London, you and I? There isn't eonugh to do here and I dislike wasting my time." "Don't be absurd — you haven't wasted time. Besides, you were due for a holiday. I suggest that you set about having some fun. The very next warm day we'll spend at the coast — it's only twenty miles away. And I don't see why you shouldn't make a few dates of your own. You'ce 911

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not bound to be on hand here every day. Get out and about, and forget us." Pat could summon no response to this. To forget Craigwood and its present pains and problematical joys would be to seal up one's heart and live only with the brain, which was a state of affairs she knew herself incapable of sustaining for long. She would like to laugh and have fun, though, to recapture the debonair attitude towards life which had been hers before the advent of Simon. She became aware that Mrs. Cunliffe was making net regal way down the stairs, and she crossed the hall to shake up the cushion in the older woman's favorite chair^ and pull forward a footstool. "You're very thoughtful, my dear," said Aunt Alison, as she gratefully lowered herself and raised her feet. "How nice it is to have one's tea in the bedroom and dress in leisurely fashion. I was just thinking, as Charlotte was doing my hair how dreadful it would be if she were to die before I do." ' "Aunt Alison!" exclaimed Marion. "What's so shocking about it?" said Mrs. Cunliffe serenely. "Thinking around such subjects doesn't make them imminent. One benefit of growing old is that yoe lose most of your fears." "Fears aren't always bad things."" "No, but they detract so much from one's happiness. Ifs far better to trust what you know and leave the rest to work itself out." "What do you mean by ... trust what you know?" "My dear Marion" — the deep eyes twinkled — "you're being purposely obtuse. I mean trust what you know about people." After a minute, Marion said, "I wish I had your confidence in the future." "You will have, when you're my age." She cast a smile up at Pat. "You look strained, Patricia. It's an odd but indisputable fact that young folk invariably find country life more exacting than the hurly-burly of town. I believe you've actually lost color since you came down, and you were pale enough then." "It's the light," said Pat. "May I get yoa. some sherry?" "Here comes Parker. He'll do ifc"

Parker advanced majestically, bearing' a huge, floral box tied with pink and silver ribbons. He placed it upon the table and involuntarily all three women leaned forward to examine, through the cellophane lid, the wonderful mass of opening rosebuds. There were at least sixty blooms, ranging from the sullen red of the heart's blood through flame and flamingo to a pale flesh pink. "Dear me," said Aunt Alison. "They must have cost a fortune." And somehow Simon was there, looking down upon the glorious boxed array with an aloof and cynical smile. "Someone's sending cottons to Manchester. Whose are they?" "They've just been delivered from the station, "stated Parker. "They arrived by passenger train for Miss Gordon." He bowed to Mrs. Cunliffe. "Shall I bring sherry, madam?" "Yes, please, and whisky for Mr. Leigh ... and'we must have a large bowl for these flowers." Pat's hand was upon the box, fanned protectively above the card which was attached to one of the stems. Simon would have to stroll in at this juncture, but deep down she didn't really care. Let him see for himself that she had admirers; it all helped to keep relationships cool and sane. \ I With a show of nonchalance she untied the ribbons, pressed a fingernail dov/n one edge of the lid and stripped back' the cellophane; gently, she lifted the roses. The card could not have been fastened securely, for it slid sideways on to the table. Without haste, Simon picked it up and read the few words aloud. " 'I'm missing you, darling. All my love, Roy.'" He made a tat-tutting sound. "How very youthful and unrestrained in these days of cellophane." "It was only meant for Patricia, Simon," said his aunt reprovingly. He flipped the card among the blossoms in Pat's arms. "Sleep with it beneath your pillow, child, and the dreams of diampagne and night dubs." His mouth was unpleasantly thin as he added, "It'll make a change from dreaming of ingenuous brown eyes -and spatalate fingers wielding a ——..—-— 90

•

Marion stared at him, her bnws high. "What are you getting at?" Pat would have contrived a bright laugh and a diverting remark had she not noticed, in that instant, that Simon's dgarette-case no longer lay beside the lamp on the table, where she had placed it. He must have swiftly and unobtrusively transferred it to his pocket. She burned with unreasoning anger. He dragged her affairs unmerdfully into the light but his own private life was sacred, not to be thought about in the same breath. He sneered at Roy Brandon who was, after all, just a pleasant young man addicted to the extravagant phrase, and he mocked because Hugh Dyson found her compatible. As she staffed the cellophane into the flower box her hands were unsteady. "Simon's alluding to the art master at the school," she said. "He's afraid I may get married before he leaves as in September. He can't bear to see other people happy." By the strange, electric quality in the pause which followed. Pat knew she had expressed the forbidden. One thought such, things but didn't say them. She had a wild impulse to fling the roses at their feet and fly across die hall and upstairs, but the habit of politeness kept her there, standing at the table which was set between Marion and Mrs. Cunliffe. She knew that Simon, also standing and not a yard away, was eyeing her narrowly and critically. "There are some," he said, "who'll accept half a loaf lather than have no bread. But half a loaf gets used up and you have to fall back on something less substantial. Far better to have done without it from the beginning." "I don't entirely agree." Aunt Alison had made a lightning recovery and was eager, as always, for a part in what promised to be a lively discussion. "If you're talking of marriage, I'd say that so long as a woman is loved the anion has a chance of success. If she's loyal, her loving the man back is not important. Between any couple who live and strive together an intimacy of action and thought is bound to grow. It's happening all the time, Simon." "How long does it take?" he queried with a sarcasm which was unusual in his tone to his aunt. 'Till one's sunk in middle age?"

"It wouldn't suit you, I know. I was regarding it from the woman's angle. Being loved completely and for herself' is about all a woman asks of marriage." "You're back in the last century, my dear aunt. In those days passionate feelings in a woman were considered indelicate; she only submitted. Marriage today doesn't work on those lines. A woman has to put into it as much emotion as her husband does, and if she cares less for him than he cares for her, the marriage disintegrates." "You make present-day marriage sound horribly raw," "Nature without a doak is raw; so is an unhappy marriage." A thorn pierced Pat's finger, and she discovered she was gripping the rose stems with unnecessary force. What had he in mind — the marriage of Elise and Max Bristow? Was that what lay behind yesterday's visit to Dolbridge — a need to see for himself just what was happening between those two? To Simon it would have been obvious that his golden woman was no match for the tough Max. Only half an hour ago Marion had asserted that Simon would not marry Elise if she were free, that he would never again feel he could trust her. But Elise was beautiful and her charms were those of a hesitant, highly-bred kitten that badly needs to be cherished and loved. It might happen that in one direction Simon wasn't invulnerable. Parker had brought the drinks and Simon was pouring. A wide bowl half-full of water had been placed on the table, and Pat began to arrange the flowers. Perhaps because Simon hnd sounded cantankerous. Aunt Alison had shelved the topic of woman's part in marriage, and she was now quietly inquisitive about what he had been doing all day. For ten minutes Marion had been singularly wordless, her troubled glance upon Pat. "I'll go up and change," said Simon, when he had drained his glass. "I hope you've arranged an early dinneCo I've some work to do." "Work?" echoed Mrs. Cunliffe. "I have to keep in touch with tfae office." He looked at Pat. "How's the report going?" "It's finished. I've put both copies on the desk in your room. I thought you'd rathee haws_it there than in the library." ^

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"So I would. Thaafcs a lot. I think HI take & up to London myself and do several other bits of business at the same time. I'll go on Friday." "For how long?" asked Marion quickly, "Three or four nights." "You might take Pat. She could stay at an hotel and do some shopping for us." "It isn't necessary for her to go," he said offhandedly. "Let me know what you want and if ifs not too feminine I'll get it for you." "Pat does need a change." "London wouldn't be a change," he said briefly. He went over to the staircase and disappeared upwards, leaving behind a curious blend of discord and relief. Aunt Alison said pensively, "I wonder if Simon would consider size six in sensible black leather slippers too feminine? I'd like to buy Charlotte a pair for her birthday and she'd be so pleased to know they came from London."

Simon departed that Friday without fuss. He would be back on Wednesday, and promised to ring Craigwood just before setting out on the return journey. Pat watched the big car glide round the drive and vanish towards the gates. Her heart sank at seeing him go, but he took with him some of her pain and uncertainty. Craig. wood was still here, changeless, venerable and compassionate in spirit. The trees had their summer burdens, fruit ripened and bees sipped pollen from the flowers. The weather had warmed, and delidous, scented breezes entered the rooms, accentuating both her loneliness and the sense of peace now that she had respite from the beloved, torturing presence of Simon. Yes, she did need a change, and Simon was right; & few days in London would not have been much help, particularly with him near. Most of all she would have liked a quiet week or two with her father in a bungalow near the sea. Possibly that was why she reminded Marion of a promise she had made to arrange a day out. 102

i

The coast at Marlsea had none of the dark cragginess which is typical of Cornwall, nor were the headlands so arresting as those'a little farther along the Devon shore. But the bay was pretty and sheltered from the wind, and on a hot day one could bathe and lounge and eat from a picnic basket in heavenly comfort. Marion had made up a party of twelve that Saturday, and Pat was partnered by Graham Belton, who was scholarly and no trouble at all. He regarded his twin sisters' antics indulgently, and confided to Pat what a blessing it was that the brains of the family were vested in himself; a man had to make his way in the world, but the twins would undoubtedly marry. In common with his type he could not see that intelligence in a wife was particularly necessary. Pat began an argument on the subject but soon gave it up; the weather was too warm and this blessed interlude of peace too valuable to be squandered in profitless debate. Much of the general talk was of the Summer Fair. It would be the first held for many years, and for some reason the promoters had decided to expand its scope. Besides the usual cattle show and entertainment booths,? there would be a day of sports, and it was hoped that Sheridan's The Critic, which the Manbury School boys were rehearsing as an end-of-term production, would be staged one afternoon for outsiders in the school grounds. It was partly due to the prevailing enthusiasm for a bigger and better Manbury Fair that Pat drove away from Marlsea that evening, not in the Beltoos' car as she had come, but in the rakish vehicle belonging to Honour Willings. As well as the hankering to become a member of the medical profession. Honour had a passion for breeding dogs. At her parents' large country house she reared Labradors and Boxers, and she was keen for a dog show to be incorporated into the Fair. Pat had put questions about the dogs, and Honour's tons' Eton was immediate and enthusiastic. "Haven't you ever kept a Labrador or a Boxer? They're. marvellous, and so simple to train. You must come over and see mine." A moment's pause, and then, eagerly, "Why aot come home with me mis evening? It keeps light so

late that you'll be able to see everything. We have a few horses, too." Pat had agreed at once. She liked Honour's sensible good looks and her roggedness, and she respected her ambition. So when the rugs and baskets had been gathered up and the first car moved away from the shadowed beach, she called an explanation to Marion and got into Honour's little contraption. As they wound up from the coast through the wooded hills the air was coof and refreshing. The sun, gold-dusting the treetops, was beginning its gradual relinquishment of the earth, and high white scarves of fleecy doud were acquiring pink edges and presaging another fine day tomorrow. Honour allowed the other cars to pass her. "I can never hurry at this time of the day," she said. "There's so much to see. You don't mind dawdling?" "No» I love this road. As a schoolgirl I used to cyde ifc" "Odd that we should have grown up within half a dozen miles of each other, yet never have met till this summer," said the other girl musingly. "Not so very odd," replied Pat. "You were always at boarding school a great deal of the time, and we always lived quietly, dose to the sdiool." She might have added, "And socially, we Gordons were a rung or two below the Leighs, the Willingses and the Beltons," but such a remark would have hurt Honour, who was no snob. Presently the car took a left tarn into a narrow lane •whidi curved away between crab-apples and hawthorns and finally ended at a five-barred gate which, it seemed, was permanently propped open. From there on the path was narrower and had a gravel surface right up to the front entrance of the Willings' home. It was not an imposing structure, but like most of the larger houses in the district it appeared to have grown into its fields and trees, never to be uprooted. The only person in sight was a very old man who cared for the cattle and horses. There were several dogs, of course, from the square-nosed terriers to a stately St. Bernard, and they jumped and barked around Honour with concentrated ecstasy at her return after a whole day's absence.

She laughed tolerantly. "Why do dogs always love human beings so much more than their own kind? What on earth am I going to do with this bunch when I go up to the university?" "Won't your mother look after them?" "She used to, but in the year I've been living at home their number has trebled, and the kennels are too far for her in bad weather. I suppose I shall have to sell some and give the rest away." She shrugged philosophically and led the way across a garden made ramshackle by the pets and into a pasture, at the far end of which, in a huge wired enclosure, stood the two rows of kennels which housed the pedigreed Labradors and Boxers. Pat made friends with a comical-looking Boxer puppy, but she preferred the noisy house terriers that yapped their disdain of the aristocratic show dogs through the wire. The racket was so deafening that she had come out of the enclosure and shut the high gate before realizing that Honour was not alone; she was talking to a man. He was above average height but did not appear tall because of the extraordinary width and thickness of his shoulders in his riding jacket. A bulky man with heavy features and rather dose-cropped fawn hair. She hesitated, unwilling to break in, but Honour turned and saw her. l "Pat, come and meet Max Bristow." When Tat had moved forward and managed a startled smile, she added, "This is Pat Gordon, Max. She lives with the Leighs." With a trace,of awkwardness he indined his head. "I'm happy to know you," he said. And to Honour, "If your parents are away for the week-end I'll leave it over till Tuesday. Tell your father I really want the filly and won't quibble over the price." While he gave a few more details Pat watched him. So this was the husband of Elise, this man who was at ease while he spoke of horses but slightly constrained over the social graces. She guessed that there was little difference between his age and Simon's, but that intellectually they were worlds apart. Previously, in those far-off days before she had become Marion's secretary. Pat had known Max Bristow only by sight and by his reputation as an excellent 105

horseman and farmer. Since meeting Elise her conceptio of him had had an element of the florid—an impression which she saw now was utterly false. There was nothing m the least overbearing about this man. As the three of them crossed the field with the dog leaping about them he listened to Honour's description o an illness of one of the creatures, and sympathetically offered advice should the symptoms recur. When they s ped on the drive his hand unconsciously scratched at the ear of the sidling St. Bernard. Honour smiled. "That hound adores you. Max. He won't let even my father do that, yet when you do it he looks positively fatuous." He grinned down at the dog—quite a nice grin, thou Pat. "By the way," Honour irrelevantly tacked on," has E dedded to brave next winter at Dolbridge?" Pat tensed, waiting for his answer. Something flicker ^wifely across his face, leaving it with no more expressio than before. "If s too early to make plans for ihe winter. The doct says she's stronger, though." •" "I'm glad. Let's hope she'll stay till Christmas, anywa For a minute Pat had the feeling that she was in the way, that there was a bond between these two which mad her own presence superfluous. Yet it was not a bond of touch or even of the understanding smile. It was as thoug two similar people had the same ideas on things, the sam viewpoint, which made conversation almost unnecessary Neither would have been blissfully happy married to the other, but they would not have hurt each other because they were so alike. In any case, such a couple could not fall in love; in a life companion each needed the sharper, sweeter element which is part of an opposing character. To Max Bristow, Honour was probably "good old Honour," who was staunch and of the earth, and who talked his language. And Honour's regard for him was no doubt of the same quality, except that it also held pity for a man who loved the wrong woman. They were making for the long, dusty cat which had dmwn up just behind Honour's two-seater.

"I called in on my way to Manbury," he said. "I have to see some people there." Honour tapped Pat's wrist. "Are you determined not to stay and have dinner with me?" "I'm sorry, Honour. Mrs. Leigh has guests and she may need me." "Then perhaps you'd like to go with Max. You wouldn't mind dropping Pat at Craigwood, would you. Max?" "Not at all. Silly for you to make the trip when I have to." Good-byes were said and the car moved off. Pat sat beside Max Bristow, watching his unhurried movements and the large slack hands upon the wheel. Involuntarily, she compared his placid driving with the expert speed of Simon's, his thick, muscular fingers with those strong yet fleshless ones; one might as well compare lead with dynamite. Probably Elise had come to the same conclusion. Yet this man's love for his wife had no shred of incongruity. A woman beloved by him would have the security of a sun-v/armed wall at her back; a great, if inarticulate devotion. He must be fairly rich, for Marion said that Elise had been penniless when she married him. Then why, with both love and money at her command, was Elise dissatisfied with her husband ? She had chosen him freely, and there was nothing to prove that she regretted not having married Simon. Conventionally, Max enquired whether Pat liked Manbury, expressed surprise upon hearing that she had been born there and interest in the fact that she worked as secretary for Mrs. Leigh. In carefully blank tones, he said, "I daresay you met my wife at the party given by the Leighs while I was away?" , "Yes, I did, though I'd heard about her before, of course." ' :' Pat had meant this only as polite conversation, but the moment the remark was out she was aware of the construction he might put upon it—the construction he had put upon it. His mouth, fullish in the lower lip, drew in .and he let several hundred yards pass under the wheels before speaking again. Pat, furious with herself, could think, of fflothing helpful to fill the gap. "Simon Leigh is in London, isn't he?" he asked at last. 107

She nodded. "For a few days." "And he leaves England at the end of September. It beats me how any man can tarn his back so carelessly upon a place like Craigwood. The country needs men of Simon's calibre at home." She wondered if it were a streak of Justice in him that made him state such an opinion, or whether he were ignorant of the reviving sparks between Elsie and Simon. It was quite painful to think of the hurt in his private life. "I suppose the country also. needs such men abroad, or he wouldn't be sent. He'd rather go than stay here." "The trend things are taking," he said, with just a trace of moodiness, "it looks as though in a few years most of the houses round here will have passed from the old people. There's Belton, whose son has no interest at all in the land, and Willings, who has only Honour—and she's anxious to become a medical worker among the poor. Craigwood is the biggest and best. . ." His voice faded, and Pat knew that his mind had veered towards Dolbridge and his own lack of children. It pierced her like a sword that the existence of the suffocatingly sweet and cosy Elise could cheat posterity of two old and honorable families, with her hands dendied tightly in her lap. When Max again ventured a comment it was of the innocuous type which could be enlarged upon till they reached the gates of Craigwood. Pat thanked him for the lift, and as she walked up the drive she pondered fruitlessly upon Max Bristow, who seemed to have no antipathy for Simon Leigh, and upon Elise, that problematical woman who had been loved by two men without yielding to either a fraction of her inmost self. CHAPTER ELEVEN SUNDAY was quiet and Pat spent all her leisure hours yi the gardens at Craigwood and with her father and Hugh at the cottage. Tuesday, Hugh told her, was his slackest day in the school week; he was free from twelve onwards. How about that visit to Exeter? He had the promise of a ear and the weather did look settled. 108

Mr. Gordon put in an unexpected word. "Go with him, Pat. You haven't seen inside the cathedral since your schooldays, when I used to take you to Exeter to watch the ships on the canal." "And we might go oa to Exmouth," Hugh submitted persuasively. There was really no reason why Pat should not spend Tuesday with him, and there were one or two things she wanted to buy. So she agreed to be at her father's house by noon on Tuesday. Marion, when the matter was put to her at dinner &at night, approved the plan. "I quite liked Mr. Dyson that day he came with the boys, and it's good for one's ego to be often in the company of an admirer." "Not quite so good for the ego of the admirer," inserted Aunt Alison, who could never resist stating an opinion, "unless he's sure of the success of his quest How fond of him are you, Patrida?" "We're only friends." "Does he want to paint you?'" "He's mentioned it." "Ah! Then if you can't be more than friendly with him let him go ahead with the painting. Let him pour what he feels for you on to canvas. I was once told by the wife of a famous artist that she would never consent to be painted by her husband because she had noticed that as soon as he finished a portrait he lost interest in the sitter. That's probably true of lesser artists, too." "But it's not foolproof," said Marion. "It's human nature to go on craving for the things one hasn't had, eveis when their savour has diminished." "My dear," replied the old lady as she briskly attacekd the ruins of a castle pudding, "you're in a groove. We're three women here without relief. Simon isn't relief—he draws the tension tighter. Why don't we have some house guests? What about all those people you know in London, the young man who spent so much on those roses for Patricia? Let's have them down, Marion, and brighten up ourselves and the house as well!" "I wouldn't care to invite Roy Brandon," Pat said

"Because of Simon?" demanded Marion Just as quickly. "Don't you write to Ray?" "I thanked him for the flowers, but we don't correspond. He wouldn't fit in at Craigwood, and he'd hate to be regarded as less important than other guests. You know the Brandons." "But he wouldn't be," declared Aunt Alison. "Pat means because she's my secretary," said Marion quietly. "She has such a stubborn pride that I've never yet found the courage to insist that she call me by my first name, and behave as though she belongs here." "Then I'll do the insisting," stated Mrs. Cunliffe indomitably. "And from now on I'm Aunt Alison, Patricia, whether you like it or not. Now about these house guests. . . ." "It's useless arranging anything before Simon comes back. He has to agree to whatever we decide." Marion pushed aside her fruit plate, told Parker to serve coffee in the drawing-room and placed her hands upon the edge of the table, preparatory to standing. "You go to Exeter on Tuesday, Pat, and make up your mind to have fun. If Hugh Dyson asks you to marry him don't say no till you've thought it over very seriously." Her smile lacked spontaneity as she finished, "Remember Aunt Ailson's lecture the other day: it isn't so necessary for a woman to be in love as to be loved." Pat knew that Marion believed, as Simon did, that such a view of marriage might have stood the test half a century ago when women had no independence, but that today a woman did not meekly surrender herself out of mere gratitude. She couldn't imagine why Marion should echo Aunt Alison's sentiment, unless . . . Her heart turned and her skin went cold. Could Marion possibly have guessed at her love for Simon? Was she extending a warning, throwing out light advice on the sanest course when one's case was hopeless? Surely not! She had been so careful not to give herself away, and besides, the turbulent emotion she felt for Simon was too new to be patent to anyone else. Why, she was still breathless and terrified herself at the very thought of her heart being in Simon's negligent keeping. Marion must have been jesting, rather bitterly, perhaps, for just recently the humorous mood had evaded her.

Pat's breathing evened out and she quelled an unhappy sigh. Never before at Manbury had she felt so benighted. It was in a steadier frame of mind that she sat beside Hugh Dyson in the maths, master's modest car the following Tuesday. Big douds hung over the countryside but it was not cold, nor had the atmosphere the ominous feel of rain. The trees were still, the green wheat leaned the way the last wind had blown it, and the dover was white and scented, ready for reaping. The village gardens were packed with hollyhocks, marigolds and snapdragons, and foxgloves stood tall in hedges where wild strawberries ripened. Low walls dripped with catmint, high ones were smothered in japonica, and the indefatigable stonecrop patched the thatched roofs with its yellow stars; from high up in a cracked cottage wall drooped a duster of red daisies. "Have you ever painted the country scene, Hugh?" she asked 'him, as they bumped over a hump-backed bridge. "I did my share of it a few years ago. I think I tried everything before admitting the grisly truth." "There's nothing grisly about teaching art." "I know that now," He flung her a smile. "But when you're a bit of an idealist you have a horror of letting yourself down. It's mudi easier to live with your conscience once you've got the hang of your limitations. Believe me, I know!" "I think it's more praiseworthy to help the next generation to appredate the technical and aesthetic qualities of art than to go on striving for a perfection in your pwn work that you haven't much chance of attaining. After all, the really great people are so few that only those with definite signs of genius can hope to enrich the arts. Implanting a love of beauty is a big and wonderful job. You should be proud." "I've never known a girl like you. Pat—you make a chap feel he could move mountains. Some women are so hard they make you wince." "You must have been unfortunate." "Not now . . . not any more. You're far and away She sweetest person I've ever met." "You'll have to get about more." Adroitly she managed 8 twist of the conversation. "It's only three weeks to your

holiday, isn't it? For a whole month you'll be wandering among mountains and lakes, and when you come back the trees will be turning russet and there'll be blackberry pies and mushrooms. You'll have still another two weeks' freedom before the sdiool reopens. What will you do with them?" "I don't know. Some time I must visit my old uncle in London, but I'd rather stay here. I'm tossing up whether to invest in a little bus like this one. What do you think of it?" The topic served for the rest of the way to Exeter. The car was parked, they lunched in the dining-room of an hotel and came out to wander the old, crowded streets and spend a couple of hours at the cathedral. Hugh sat cross-legged on the grass and sketched one of the Norman towers and part of the statue-covered west front. He was absorbed and contented, and when he 'had finished he handed the sketchbook to Pat. She admired the two drawings, flicked back the pages and saw the familiar walls of Manbury School, a huddle of cottages in a billow of trees, and a wickedly lifelike sketch of the cadaverous Mr. Rathern. "I hope you keep this book locked up," she said. "If the boys saw the picture of Ratty they'd treat you as one of themselves." "They do already. I oughtn't to have made that one of Rathern, but he has such marvellous hollows and lines." He ripped out the page, crumpled it and staffed into his pocket. "I won't risk injuring the old boy. Shall we go on to Exmouth for a cup of tea?" Hugh was quietly exuberant with happiness. He looked at Pat, and to him everything, from her wavy, tawny hair to the slim, sandalled feet was perfect. He risked taking his eyes from the road in order to delight in her contour and the utterly graceful curve of her neck, and with a drowning sort of bliss he thought of her hands holding his face, her fiingers cool upon his brow. In spite of knowing his limitations, Hugh was still something of an idealist; he was also possessed of a large degree of optimism. Exmouth was full of holiday-makers, but after tea Hugh found a green hill abo-^e the sea and, inevitably, out again came the sketch book. Pat was the subject this time, curls

blowing gently in the evening breeze against the sky, her mouth sweet and drowsy, for she was tired. It was an excellent likeness and faintly flattering. Side by side they examined it in the golden light. Regretfully Pat shook her head. "It's lovely, but I'm sot like that." "To me you are," he said softly. "That's exactly how I see you." "Then you don't see me as I am. This girl in pendl could never suffer from any of the baser emotions like .. o like anger or jealousy." "Do you mean that you do?" "I'm human." He laughed a little. "I'm glad to hear it. Maybe one of these days I'll see you jealous, and I'll draw you again in the light of new knowledge. I hope I shall be at the root of the jealousy." Pat was silent. This was her cue, her opening for s. declaration that they would never be more than friends. But the day had been one of tranquility and comradeship, and she couldn't bear, just now, to see pain come into those bright, boyish brown eyes. There ought to be something she could say, though, some casual remark which would show him the inadvisability of taking too much for granted. The next moment it was too late. Shyly, his hand slid across her back and held her shoulder and his mouth pressed warmly at her temple. Then he drew a queer, choked breath and got quickly to 'his feet. "It's getting late. Pat. We'll have to go." Neither spoke mudi during the drive back. to Manbury. Shadows lengthened and the sun was gone, but the long twilight lasted till they had dimbed the steep road from the village to Craigwood. He slowed at the gates and turned as if to run up the drive. "No, I'll walk it," she said hastily. 'Td rather. Please, Hugh!" Obediently, he stopped. Not looking up he detached the sketch he had made of her from the book and slipped it between a folded newspaper which had lain between them. His tone was slightly stilted. I "I want you to have this. Pat." He made a small sound which was supposed to denote amusement but somehow

missed the mark. "That's another picture it wouldn't do fos the boys to ogle." "Thanks." She held the paper under her arm, and her other hand was on the door handle. "It's been a glorious day, Hugh." "Yes. It has been . . . nice." As she made to press down the^ handle he went on stumblingly, "Pat, there's something I have to say. It's difficult, because I'm a complete novice at this kind of thing. No—please don't interrupt. And don't give me an answer now. Let me get this said, and . . . and we'll discuss it some other time." He had to pause, but the sight of him, clenching on to the wheel and staring palely through the windscreen at the dusky road, kept Pat nerveless. "The fact is, I'm in love with you—I have been ever since we first met—and I want to marry you. I know I've spoken of this too soon—too soon for you, that is—and that I'm doing it hurriedly and without grace—just as I do everything else, except my job. But I had to do it now because . . . well, there's the holiday with your father . . . and other things. Please understand, Pat. I've been over it with myself many times. I'm not fit to black your shoes; I'm dumsy and forgetful, and I daresay I'll never rise above teaching art. But I do love you, Pat, and I can offer you a home at Manbury." Breathless, he leaned over with a jerky movement and thrust open her door. "I meant to put it so much better, but I'm depending on your understanding. Shall I see you at the week-end ?" "Yes," she managed, and got out on to the path before he could help her. "Hugh, I don't know what to say . . ." "Don't say anything. Just think about it." He avoided her eyes. "Good night, Pat." "Good night." Dazedly, she almost ran along the drive and out of his sight. For a few minutes he sat on, oddly weak in his limbs. It was done. He saw one of those three-room bungalows and Pat in a frilly frock sitting in the garden with her needlework or a book; he saw her deftly mixing cakes with the sun dappling her arms through a muslin-curtained window, and he saw the straight little nose not far below his own as she adjusted his tie. She came to him in a series of pictures; adorable Pat, who would be there for his pleas114

we and his loving. Lethargically, as if he were spent, he at last reversed the car and took the road to the school.

In the brightly-lit porch of the house Pat had to stop and regain her breath. Her lungs were tight and her knees wobbly, and it seemed that her face must show her distress. What an idiot she had been to sit there and let Hugh go on and on. Why couldn't she have insisted on his hearing her decision at once? It would be no different next Sunday, and this way she had the rest of the week to live through, knowing she must inflict hurt. How unreasonable men were, how dogmatic even the most amenable of them! Her annoyance cooled. Poor Hugh. He had been so grand today, so careful not to mar the joy of the outing by pleading for more than she could give. Even his kiss had been diaste and apologetic, and it had not occurred to him to follow it up with a doser embrace. His youthful restraint was a great deal to be grateful for. Pat pushed wide the door and entered the hall. It was deserted, but the big lamp glowed upon the main table and diairs were drawn up around a low table which held glasses and cocktail shaker. The fire had not long been lit, for flames licked up from the kindling about unblackened logs. Pat lodged her bag upon die big table and knelt before the blaze with her hands outstretdied. The leaping light played over her creased brow and tightly-dosed mouth, tamed her hair to bronze. She heard a step and looked up, and all the anxiety in her melted into a swift uprush of happiness. "Simon," she whispered. "Simon it is," he whispered back mockingly. "What's §Q secret about it, and why weren't you here to greet me?" Slowly she straightened. "I've been out most of the day. When did you arrive?" "About an hour ago." "You promised to telephone from London." "I did telephone, at lunch-time." He, looked into her face, studying her. "I do believe you're glad to see me again."

"I believe I am," she said, scarcely able to credit that she and Simon were speaking intimately and softly and without enmity. "Extraordinary, isn't it?" "Fantastic. I'm not sorry to be here, either. What do yon make of that?" She gave a short, excited laugh. "We're not real. It's the firelight and the dimness." "We're real enough." His grip on her arm to prove it made her wince, but she wanted him to go on gripping, and hurting. "By the way, your typed report was well re-^ ceived in London." The spell began to break; i"Was it?" she said, moving a few inches away from him. "Did they ask you to go out there again?" "I'm not going that way next time." A pause. "I didn't thank you properly for the work you did for me." "I did it in Mrs. Leigh's time." The intimacy was shattered. The angles of his lean dark face were familiar but somehow remote. "How is London looking?" "Like London in July," he answered carelessly.' "Ralph Sedgwick is here. He came down with me." "Oh. Your aunt and Marion will be pleased. They were hoping to persuade you to invite some house guests." "Ralph's all right, but I don't fancy others about the place." Another slightly tingling pause. "I brought you a gift from London. To avoid a fuss about it I've put it in your room." ' Pat emitted a second, "Oh." Perhaps it was the sharp disappointment at the change in his manner which prompted 'her to add, "I didn't need anything in return for the typing." "You're not getting anything in return for the typing," he said savagely, without moving. "Would it be too much for you to credit me with a normal, masculine motive?" Despairingly, she heard voices on the staircase. There came a snapping of switches and other lights blossomed, searching into all the corners of the hall. The double lounge doors were wide and the lights were on in there, too. Because Simon was back the house had come alive; the fact that he had brought a guest increased the vibrant quality in the atmosphere.

The three came across the hall together, Ralph, distinguished and erect, between Mrs. Cunliffe, and a smiling Marion. He bowed to Pat. "Hallo, Patrida. I've brought you half a dozen new gramophone records—some ballet and Continental dances. Simon agreed that my age entitles me to bestow such things on the youngest member of the house." "You're very kind," she said. "We might try them later."' "Have you only just come in. Pat?" asked Marion. "I got in a few minutes ago. I should have gone up &t once to change but I didn't know Simon and Admiral Sedgwick were here, so I lingered near the fire. It's gone cool tonight." "Dinner's going to be rather late—we put it off for the men. Stay and have a drink. What sort of day did you have?" "Quite good. We went as far as Exmouth. Simon was serving the cocktails. Pat found one placed m her hand, heard him say, "Who took you to Exmouth?" Marion answered. "Hugh Dyson—you know, the school" master. Is he good fun. Pat?" Pat didn't quite know what to make of Marion. Her spirits seemed to have soared, became almost mischievous; she might have been relieved at Simon's retaring a day before he was expected, and pleased that Ralph Sedgwick was to be of their number. "Was he good fun?" murmued Mrs. Cunliffe, sipping luxuriously at her cocktail. With a suggestion of defiance. Pat said, "Yes, he was. The hours just flew." The two older women were seated, the two men and Pat drank standing. Simon put down his glass and slanted his head to read the headlines on the folded newspaper whidi lay beside Pat's bag on the table. Indolently, he picked up the paper and shook it open. The sheet of drawing-paper sailed down gently to rest upon the toe of his shoe. Pat's impulse was to dart forward and scoop it up, but before she could take a single step Simon had retrieved the drawing and tamed it the right way round, to examine it. Watching the faint curl at his lips. Pat felt her whole being contract and a flare of hate for him in her heart,

Marion leant forward, curiously. "What is it?" "A pencil portrait of a pretty girl," explained Simon kindly. "Why, it's Pat.' My dear, your Hugh is really clever. Did he draw this today ?" Pat had to stand there and endure it all—Mrs. Cunliffe's warm appreciation of Hugh's talents, Marion's lively interest, the friendly, comprehending smile of Ralph Sedgwick, and Simon's cool sarcasm. She collected the white bag and took the sketch from brown fingers. "I must go now. I'll try to be quick." "Just a second, Pat." Marion held up a beautifully-kept hand. "Remember our talk on Sunday?" Pat looked at them all; three of them amicably treating her as if she were a niece for whom they had a large affection, the fourth withdrawn, his mouth sardonic. How could she possibly have been deceived by the earlier softness in his voice! He was like steel. She could have responded brightly, "Yes, I remember,'" and fled at once upstairs; or she could merely have laughed as if at a shared private joke. But Simon, the dear and detested, was equally intecfi upon her reply. She found herself saying, "Your advice was sensible, Marion. It always is." "Pat, dear! Did he really propose?" She nodded, but said nothing, i "You didn't accept?" . "Not yet." Suddenly the whole scene was intolerable. Pat shrugged, intimating that they were now as wise as she was and, with all the self-command at her disposal, she made her way towards the staircase and up to her room.

f

CHAPTER TWELVE

RALPH Sedgwick's presence at Craigwood made a subtle yet profound difference in the household. The air became mellower and less charged; there was more laughter, more riding and tennis, long walks about the estate and perilous journeys up the river in a boat gone leaky through disuse. US

Ralph, looking nautical in navy slacks and sweater, had the boat upturned on the river bank and set about caulking the seams. Pat got into slacks, too, and helped him, while their conversation wandered through the channels of music and books to wind up more aptly with tropical fish and sea beasts. One of the benefits to everyone was his complete willingness to fall in with their wishes. He seemed to derive as much pleasure from a diat with one of the ladies as from a canter with Simon, and he took an immediate and allembracing interest in the affairs of the estate. "You've ample ground for more cattle," he told Simoo one day at lunch. "With the Fair starting tomorrow you might pick up something good." "The bailiff takes care of those things," was the answer. "None of fhe land is wasted." "But meat production is important. Why don't you tell the chap to switdi over?" "It wouldn't be fair to butt in and take charge for two or three months. He knows how mudi he can tackle." Ralph's very blue eyes smiled^a little ruefully. "I keep forgetting that this is just a holiday residence to you. Doesn't it sting a bit to think of the house standing empty when you're gone?" Two of me women held their breath, but Aunt Alison's face was alert with enjoyment. "Self-torment isn't an indulgence of mine," said Simon. "At the most I shall be away only a couple of years, and two years isn't long in the history of Craigwood." "Well, that's something," stated Aunt Alison with satis" faction. "You might have told us before." . "I wasn't sure before," he said calmly. "Women are so darned impatient." "You're not too tolerant yourself," she reminded him. ""You'll be thirty-seven when you do settle." "So I will," he agreed cynically, "and I'll probably be impossible to live with. When Pat first saw me she thought I was thirty-eight." Shrewdly, Marion queried, "Did it rankle?" "I didn't care for it at the time, but I feel somewhat easier since discovering that however skilled she may be in certain directions, Patrida's sense of judgment is extremely

youthful. No offence, my child," he added patronizingly. "I envy your outlook. If I had it I'd be walking up the aisle any day now with one of the effervescent Belton twins." This drew amusement, for even Marion appreciated how crazy had been one of her previous hopes for Simon. Ralph' had met the Belton twins and expressed a bewildered amazement that two such lovely creatures could eat, breathe and .dance divinely with so little brain between them. ' His love of people made him keenly intent to know all the neighbors, and when he entered one of the village shops for tobacco or razor blades he was never in a hurry to leave it. 'Within a few days of arriving at Craigwood he. knew almost as much about the villagers as Fat did, and his persuasive interest wrested from them all sorts of confidences. The "naval gentleman up at the House" was fast becoming an institution at Manbury.

The Fair was officially opened at ten o'clock on that gusty Saturday morning. Gravely, one set of judges prodded cows and pigs while a second made a tour of the fmit and vegetable exhibits and a third sampled home-made cakes and preserves, and selected the best from an excellent array of arts and crafts. After an interval for lunch came a gymkhana and the dog show, at both of which Honour Willings won medals and prizes. Marion made the presentation and acquitted herself charmingly. She, Ralph, Simon and Pat had spent most of the day at the show grounds; as she expressed it, one had to be thoroughly countrified to extract .continuous joy from milch cows and geldings. They got back to Craigwood securely confident that they had clone their best to boost the Fair but happy in the knowledge that they could look forward to an unintermpted evening,' in the drawingroom listening to gramophone music or the radio. The evening was marred for Pat by an inexplicable bad head. There had been little sun and no excitement of the type whidi might result in a nervous headache; in fact she had been more with Ralph than with anyone else, and there was nothing about him which might be psychologically disturbing. Pat thought a subconscious dread of to120

morrow might be responsible, though she had decided to be firm and unequivocal v/ith Hugh Dyson; it would be a pity if their friendship had to end, but rather that than allow him to go on hoping for the impossible. It was at nine-thirty, when Aunt Alison suggested bridge and there was the usual talk about who should be left out, that Pat said she would like to go to her room. Marion raised her head. "So early?" "If you don't mind. I've one or two things to do before bed." "Very well, if you must. Good night, my dear." Pat said good night to the others. On the way up the stairs her head began to throb with agonizing force and regularity, and inside her room she sank back upon the door, feeling dizzy and sick. There came a. knock. Pat dragged herself away from the door and said, "Come in." She couldn't manage to dissemble as she stared up into Simon's startled face. "I knew you weren't well," he said. "What is it?" "Just my head. I ... I can't think why. I don't usually get headaches." "How long have you had it?" "It started during dinner. Please don't fuss." She dosed her eyes against a renewed impact of pain. Without speaking he pulled back the bed cover, switched on the bedside lamp and put out the main brilliant light; slipping an arm about her he helped her to lie down. "Don't try to move," he said quietly. "I'll get some tablets." He was back within three minutes and had raised her to swallow aspirin and water. He stayed there on the side of the, bed with his arm about her and her hair against his cheek while the back of his other hand felt her forehead. "It's probably a feverish cold. For a minute I forgot this was England and had a nasty feeling you'd picked up something worse. We'll give the aspirin time to lessen the head pains and after that you must get into bed." "I can't lie here like this," she said weakly. "I'll spoil my frock." "Hell, what does a frock matter!" He got up and loosened her belt, went out again and came back with a blanket, probably from his own bed. Pat

did not open her eyes as the blanket was tucked about be£s but she said, "They'll be waiting for you to play bridge." "No, I told them I was going for a walk in the garden. Don't talk. Pat. Give the aspirin a chance." Fleetingly, she was aware of his touch, light and cool upon her cheeks. She knew, because of the darkness whidt dosed over her lids, that he had moved the lamp to the other side of the room, and oddly, she waited and waited for the click which would mean that he had gone out. Before the click eventually came she had been asleep for some time. It seemed many hours afterwards that Marion and Edna were there, helping her off with her dothes and into her pyjamas. Her throat was hot and dosed and there was even some pain in her ears. Marion gave her more tablets, two large ones whidi would not go down. Then Simon appeared from the shadows, his shoulder came behind hers and his hand went round and gripped her upper arm. "Come on, Pat, you've got to swallow them," he said in those even, expressionless tones. "They won't stick this time." And, miraculously, they didn't. There was no question of her getting up the following morning. The doctor diagnosed severe tonsillitis caused by a prevalent germ and prescribed, among other things;, complete rest in bed. Pat had forgotten Hugh, had even forgotten that it was Sunday when her father would be expecting her to tea, till Edna brought the information that Mr. Gordon had been told she was unwell and was invited for lunch, when h@ would be coming up to see her. Afterwards, Pat remembered little of that day or the next. She roused whenever Edna entered the room because the girl could not help talking, but the others—her father, Simon and Marion—were singularly quiet. On Tuesday she sat up and had chicken soup for lunch. The sore adie in her throat had gone but she was apathetic and lifeless, and Edna's gossip grated. "Such a shame you should be ill this week, Miss Gordon There's been such doings! There were the sports yesterday and a fine firework show last night. Today they're having

that play in the school grounds—and a perfect day. for it, too. The family"—meaning, of course, the Leighs—"have had a special invitation to take a party. Seeing that the school closes for the holidays on Thursday we're having a big dinner here tonight—the Headmaster, your father and Mr. Rathern and several others. Parkes says there'll be fourteen for dinner. Tomorrow . .." "I'm afraid I can't bother about tomorrow till it comes;, Edna." "I'm sorry. I do run on, don't I? I expect it feels awful to be out of everything, but Mrs. Cunliffe says that's not a scrap important so long as you're improving. Mrs. Leigh has been worried, too, and Mr. Simon shouted at me good and proper for dropping the fire-irons when I cleaned the grates this morning. He must know well enough that you can't hear the downstairs noises up here. He gets real edgy sometimes." To divert the flow, Pat made an enquiry. "Are you going to the play this afternoon, Edna?" "It isn't my tarn off, but Mrs. Leigh said that as I've been doing a lot of running up and down the stairs she'd like me to have a treat. Real thoughtful, she is. She gave me a ticket. I don't somehow think the play will be much in my line, though." "The Critic? It's famous, you know." Edna was willing to be convinced. "I might like it. Parker says it's old-fashioned and comical. It's sure to be jolly with boys taking all the parts. If I do go, Parker himself will have to bring your tea. Mrs. Parker's rheumatism is ', bad again." "Tell Parker I shan't want any tea. I'm going to sleep." The ruse succeeded. Edna took the tray and the house went quiet. The maid must also have told Marion that Miss Gordon would be sleeping, for no one else entered the bedroom, and presently the faint purr of Simon's car sounded from the front of the house. They were off to the school. Pat did doze for an hour or so, and after that she watched the rays of the slowly westering son lengthen across the room. She visualized the play on the tree-fringed school lawn, the rows of hard chairs with one line of up•holstered ones in the front for the Head and the mot® i

honored members of the audience; her father, as senior master, would be amongst those. The village people would be seated behind, and if the number of chairs permitted, the senior boys would be at the back. The younger boys would sit on the grass and probably have the most fun, because it was the end of term and therefore, to them, their friends burlesquing on the platform would be excnidatingly funny. Pat wished she had the strength to get up and go into the sunlit garden. Loneliness mattered so much less when one was out of doors. She really was lonely, in a deep and desperate way. With the pessimism which invariably follows a feverish condition, she thought over her situation at Craigwood and found it hopeless. When Simon left at the end of September, Mrs. Cunliffe would return to Truro, and she and Marion, presumably, would take up their old way of life in London. Till a few months ago Marion's sodal welfare work and her own part in it had appeared to Pat as worthwhile. She would have laughed at anyone who said she would tire of it or find it insuf&dent. Now, it wearied and fretted her to Eicture the winter ahead, colorless and cold in the London ouse; the skeletons of the limes in the Square, people hurrying with turned-up collars to and from the stately, porticoed houses, and her own heart as stony and cheerless as a November sky. Manbury was not like that in winter. Gardens had their yellow jasmine and some people could even cut roses for the Christmas table. If the flowers should fail there was always human warmth in knowing that every neighbor was one's friend. Best of all, at Manbury lived her father; the cottage with him in it was always home. She did not hear the car come back, but in a little while she did notice movements in the corridor. And soon after that Marion looked in. "Well, Pat, how goes it?" A long stare with her head on one side. "You've had a grim time, but you'll get through better than some. We've heard of several cases of (his particular malady." "I'll be all right now." "I hope so. Simon i§ bringing you some tea.. "Why Simon?"

"Edna's off till six because there's a strenuous evening ahead of her. We're having a few guests." "I can do without tea." "Simon doesn't think so." An instant's hesitation. "Don'fc you want to see him?" "I feel low, and he's seen enough of me looking like this." "Oh, but Simon doesn't mind. It's strange, but since you've been in bed he's reminded me more and more of what he was like before he went away. He's sort of keyedup yet tender when anyone he"s fond of is ill.7 Pat's mouth was dry, but she compelled Herself to speak with an edged flippancy. "Is he fond of me? That's news!" "Pat, darling—don't." It was both an appeal and an exclamation of understanding and compassion. Pat trembled under the ..blankets and tears stung in her eyes, but before she could fabricate any kind of reply the door opened again and Simon came in with a tea tray. Marion gave a crooked little smile and went out. Simon poured some tea, pushed another tyilow behind her back and gave her the cup. "Did you get a good sleep?" he asked. "Not too bad. Even awake I feel half asleep." "It's the drug. There's nothing so quick at killing infection, but it sometimes takes a few days for the effects to wear off. You musn't let it depress you. Are you warm enough?" , • "Plenty." She tried the tea and was glad that he had served it black, with lemon. During the last three days he had infallibly done the right thing. "Tell me about the play/He smiled, hitched his trousers and sat in the chair near the foot of the bed. "It was good—reminded me ofi.my own raw youth. And how those-boys loved doing it." "Isn't The Critic a satire on sentimentalism? I expect that's what appealed to you." "You're not so drowsy as you'd have one believe, Patricia," he said teasingly. "Did you wish you were with us?" ! ' "No, though I'm sorry to have missed it. S suppose the whole school was exdted?"

"Yes. Even the masters were overflowing with good humor. I had the Headmaster on one side of me and your father on the other." With an air of abstraction he added, "before they put on the show I had a word with Dyson." "Did you?" Her manner was as non-committal as his. "He and my father are going to hike around the Lake District soon." "So I heard. Dyson was terribly anxious to know how you were. Perhaps I ought to have told you before that he's rung up several times. He asked if he could come and see you, but I put him off. I didn't think you'd want him to see you in a nightie. I'm different." "Are you?" "Of course. Till you're better I'm only big brothee Simon. After that.., we'll see." She smiled faintly. "I'll be well enough to go down t® the cottage next Sunday." "To give Dyson his answer?" ', Momentarily their eyes met. "Yes,"she said, "and please Simon . .." "All right," he said quickly. TI won't—not till you're up, anyway>Let's talk about something non-inflammable." She smiled rather less thinly, and slowly drank her tea while he described what the Manbury School boys had made of Sheridan. After her cup had been replaced on the tray, Simon stood above her with his hands in his pockets and a faintly quizzical pull at his lips. He was nice like this; but for the weight of depression Pat would have wished the illness to last longer, just for the pleasure of having Simon teasing and tender. "You never did say whether you liked the snakeskio handbag," he said. "Handbag?" she echoed foolishly, and then pink stained her cheeks. "The ... the gift you brought, from Londoa? Simon ... I didn't open it." "What did you do?" he queried with an immediate trace of frost. "Drop it in the fire?" "You know how it .was that evening," she said, confused and distressed. "I'd said something unwise and you got angry. Then you were rude about Hugh's drawing of me." "Drawing of you!" he scoffed contemptuously. "The fellow's never taken a good look at yore. All he's eves 1126

noticed is the way your hair curls and the shape of your face. The outline is probably all that strikes him about anyone. And do you know why? Because he's so full of himself that he hasn't room for anyone else. I've met his type a thousand times—the lock of hair over the brow, the creased jacket, the resigned acceptance of something less than fame. The most astonishing part about them is their sincerity. That's what got you, isn't it? You feel . . ." "Simon, you promised!" He let out a brief, hard laugh. "Sorry. It's only that I'm anxious you should see the light before meeting him again; for the love of Pete don't let him ride you. Relax, my child. I've finished." She took a thankful breath. "If you'll get the box from the second drawer of the dressing-table, I'll open it now." He did as she asked, slipped the tape from the box and lifted the lid. Pat took the fat, opulent bag into her hands and turned it about. "It's beautiful," she said softly. "There's python trimming on my navy shoes . . ." She snapped open the clasp, drew from inside the bag a sheaf of exquisite lace handkerchiefs. "Simon," she breathed, "I don't know how to thank you." He grinned slightly. "At any other time I'd say it was worth a kiss. We'll defer thanks till you've more pep, shall we?" Pat was saved the task of contriving a reply to this by a discreet rap at the door. Parker tamed the handle and spoke from the doorway. "Pardon me, Mr. Leigh. Mrs. Bristow is asking for you 'on the telephone." Simon'is smile became set. "Is she holding on?" "Yes, sir." "Why didn't you tell her I'd ring back ?" "I suggested it, but she insisted on talking to you at once. She says it's urgent." Simon' paused for a further second. "I'll go down. You might take this tray, Parker." He was gone, and Parker was in the room and apparently in no hurry to leave it. He rearranged the teapot and milk jug and kept both hands on the tray as he turned an impersonal glance upon Pat.

"She was crying," he said. "There must be trouble at Dolbridge. There's a rumor in the village that she and Mr. Bristow are separating." Pat had slumped palely into her pillows with the blanfeets up to her chin. "People gossip too much. It's probably a perennial rumor because she always spends the winter in France." "She was very agitated." He shook his head. "I expec Mr. Leigh will have to go over to Dolbridge. It'll mess up the dinner arrangements tonight." Parker was too well trained to stay long where he was obviously not wanted. He attributed Pat's utter lack of response to the illness from which she had not fully recovered, and bore the tray from the room. For a long white Pat lay with her face towards the window. She saw fleecy dours tipped with flame. It seemed that Elise was out there in the golden light, Simon's golden woman weeping and stretdiing her arms to him. She could not think coherently about Mix Bristow's wife and Simon; she only knew that because of them her heart was as dead as a quenched fire. She twisted in the bed and heard the thud of the snakeskin handbag as it slid to the floor. She hoped Edna would come in and put the thing away. She wanted never to have to look at it again. CHAPTER THIRTEEN BY Friday, Pat was almost back to normal. She had not much color or energy, but determination is occasionally an excellent substitute for stamina, and Pat was determined not to hark back to anything which would remind her of Simon's moughtfulness and help while she had been flat ia her bed. Mrs. Cualiffe was delighted with her return among them, and Ralph Sedgwick touched her arm and gave her a warm smile of welcome. "We've missed you," he said, "but while you were under the weather I got the boat rigged with an awning. As soon sa you fed fit enough we'll all go up the riveE."

• "We can go today, if you like," she answered. "There's hardly any wind." They were all seated on the terrace, facing the trees. Aunt Alison looked out over the garden. "You're not counting me, I hope. My sailing days ended about twenty years ago." ; "I'm not for the river today, either," said Simon. "I have to go out.'If you do take Pat, see that she's well wrapped." Marion shrugged. "We're not morons, Simon." "I know you're not," he responded levelly. "My remark: was one of those conventional superfluities." The silence, though short, prickled unpleasantly. Pat wondered if Marion and Simon had quarrelled while she was upstairs, and then she decided that it was unlikely. Simon never quarrelled; he had no need to because he could always hurt more by withdrawing behind a wall of sarcasm. Perhaps that was what had happened; certainly something had. From Edna, Pat had learned that Simon had come back late from Dolbridge last Tuesday. He had made his apologies to the guests and everything had passed off well, but Edna was sure something was wrong. Aunt Alison made a pointblank enquiry. "Are you going to Dolbridge today, Simon?" "Yes, I am." "Why," she went on valiantly, "don't you bring Elise? here? Then you could all picnic somewhere up the river."" "Elise is unwell." "Dear me! Another sore throat?" "No, Aunt Alison," he said crisply. "If you and Marion are so interested it wouldn't hurt you to go over and see Elise for yourselves. I'm quite willing to drive you there." Ralph got out his pipe and searched his pocket for his pouch. "The way you spoke then, Simon," he observed peaceably, reminiscently, "reminded me of the time you and I got those Malayan refugees out of Bayeng. Remember how wild you were when the men wolfed the rations before the women and kids had a look in?" Simon glanced at him without animosity but made no rejoiner. He stood up, said, "I'll see you all later," and strode into the house.

Ralph ended what he had started. "Z don't suppose he's ever told you that tale. He wouldn't, because it's not pretty. He was white-hot but quite controlled. He had the men shut up, then commandeered the food which had been hoarded by all the well-to-do in the district and doled it ©ut to those who'd had none." "Good gracious," exdaimed Aunt Alison. "I'd no idea men in the intelligence service had to do that sort of thing. Simon's never mentioned it." "It was merety inddental, but similar hazards are going on all the time." Marion sighed. "Get your coat. Pat, and we'll push off for an hour in the boat." Obediently, Pat left them and dimbed to her room. As she pulled on her coat and dropped a dean handkerchief into the pocket, her mind repeated Ralph's bald description. A starving mass of human beings and Simon feeding them and getting them sorted out. How could such a job of work be parallel with his visits to Dolbridge? Ralph must have suggested the comparison for Marion's and Aunt Alison's sake. He knew that they would go to any. lengths rather than take up the challenge to make a trip to the Bristow house. Yet it would be best for both women if they would. It was always better to face the/enemy. Slowly, she made her way down to the hall. The maio i door was open and before going out Pat paused there, yearning to recapture the well-being which this particular scene had previously conjured for her. The gracious sweep of lawn. the chestnuts and more distant cedars, the rhodo» dendrons where the drive curved; and the balm of feeling the haven of the house about her. Craigwood, with its massive rooms and rich panelling, the carved staircase, the priceless pictures, the glittering chandeliers; lovely old furniture, protective walls; above all, fee indestructible spirit of the place. As she stood she heard voices: Marion's and Ralph's. They must be waiting for her on the white bench in the porch. She would have moved out to join them at once, poi had she not been arrested by the mention of her own ha<

"There's no laughter in Pat, no defence. If she is falling in love with Simon she won't be able to avoid getting hurt. She was never like this, Ralph." "She's been ill. As for her falling in love with Simon— well, if she has, she's old enough to handle it alone. From what I know of Pat she'll get through it better without interference. If anyone spoke to her about it she'd feel humiliated. I can't think what's got hold of Simon." "I can." Marion sounded almost irritable and feline. "He pities Elise. She's small and dependent and no doubt quite heart-wrenching when she's unwell. She's bad so much practice." "I've never seen her, but she doesn't sound the type to make any lasting impression upon Simon. He wouldn't fall for anyone so spiritless." "But he did," said Marion indisputably. ['Men are attracted to opposites." "Arc they?" Pi.alph apparently thought this over. "I should think there are enough differences "between the sexes without searching around fo'r someone possessing the antithesis of one's own personality. Possibly my notions are anything but original, but I do feel that there's a heap more to the man-woman relationship than for the man to be protective and the woman submissive. The chief reason I'm unmarried is that I've never met a woman who combines the understanding heart with a leaning towards the things I like." Ralph hemmed a bit, but seemingly thought it safer to leave the subject just there. "Shall we stroll over to the rivier?" he said. "Pat's sure to' be down soon." Pat joined them before they had gone twenty yards. She was buttoned up to the throat and had smudges under her eyes, but she smiled often, and presently, as they drifted between the willows, she was able to enter quite gaily into their discussions. Perhaps her chatter was a shade too animated and it might have been noticeable that the smile was brittle and never reached her eyes, but her effort at light-heartedness was what all three of them needed. Pat made up her mind there and then to stick to the bright, I'

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careless pose, and to avoid deep thinking, even when she •was alone. She also had another idea which might help quite a bit but that could wait till tomorrow or Sunday.

In fine weather it was the habit at Craigwood to have breakfast in the morning-room, which looked east and had double glass doors into the garden. The doors were pulled wide and the table set in the opening so that fresh air and the view could be appredated without the discomfort of draughts. There was generally enough wind to stir the flowers on the table and cool the coffee or tea rather more quickly than one really liked, but on the breeze came the appetizing smells of hot rolls and frizzling bacon, and the scents of verbena and thyme wafted from the vegetable garden at the back of the house. Mrs. Cunliffe always had breakfast in bed, so on that Sunday morning the usual four sat at the table, Marion and Pat at the back fadng the garden, and Ralph and Simon one at each side. Both men looked tanned and healthy in white sweaters, and Ralph's grizzled hair showed a tendency, now that he invariably went without a hat, to form itself into curls. Marion wore a tan linen suit with a white blouse. Her hair, dressed in a less slick style than the one she had favored in London, gave youth to her fine features. Yes, she was younger and more placid, thought Pat wonderingly, and she seemed to have lost the business woman's conciseness. Pat herself had put on a pleated blue silk frock and white shoes. Dressing, she had pondered more about jher selfimposed burdens than about how she looked. Nevertheless she had emerged slim and fresh from her bedroom and arrived third in the morning-room. Simon had been last; he had taken a ride before breakfast Pat ate some grapefruit and a small portion of scrambled egg, and listened to the men's debate upon a local golf tournament which had been played off yesterday. The Fair was over, the school dosed, and Manbury proposed to drowse through the rest of the summer.

Marion said, "We don't have so very many calm Sundays, Couldn't we all go to the beach this morning?" "I like Marslea," Ralph commented in assent. "One of these days I'll buy a house there." i "Your ambition once included a view of the Channel," said Simon lazily. "You were keen to watch the big ships go by — the next best thing to navigating one yourself." "Ships are all right when you've nothing else. If it's all the same to you, I'd sooner live near Manbury. I've made a good many friends here." "We're flattered, Ralph. Speaking for myself, there's nothing I'd like better. Have you a sea-cook in mind?" " "I'll find one," he replied confidently. "He'll be the least of it." "Well, are we going to Marlsea today?" Marion wanted to know. "Pat goes down to tea with her father," mentioned Simon. Pat dropped two lumps of sugar into her coffee and took an interest in stirring, "As a matter of fact," she said casually, "I intend to see my father this morning. I hope you've no objection to this, Marion — I'm going to ask him if I can stay with him at the cottage till he leaves for his holiday. He sets off next Friday week. Mr. Rathem was to leave yesterday for Scotland, so I can have his room. It won't make any difference to you, will it?" "Of course not, except that we're selfish enough to prefer having you here." Simon placed both elbows on the table and looked straight at Pat. "Your father's not expecting you, is he? He hasn't put this up before?" "He doesn't have to. It's simply that I want to go and he'll be glad to have me. Marion hasn't any work for me just now. It struck me as a good plan." "So it is," said Marion warmly. "I'm sure your father will be delighted, and a break from Craigwood will benefit you, too. We'll look forward to Friday week, and having you back." Pat drank some of the coffee and unnecessarily stirred it again. She knew she didn't look quite so sick as she felt because Marion went on talking lightly and, after a

moment, Simon lay back in his chair and, staring at the trees, lit a cigarette. But she couldn't swallow any more of the coffee; it would have choked her. Of her own accord she was leaving Craigwood, deliberately cutting, herself off from Simon for two whole weeks. And suddenly she was filled with the terrible foreboding that this was the last morning she would ever spend at Craigwood, the last meal with Simon — the very last.

Well, it had happened. Craigwood and part of the grief were behind her, and it had all been accomplished very simply and with the concurrence of at least three members of that household. The weather became soft and wet. During the last week or two before a holiday it was Mr. Golden's custom to set his garden in order, to shave the grass close and leave the clippings strewn over it, to weed the beds and summerprune the dimbers. But this year he was continually frustrated by heavy showers which made the grass far too wet for cutting and waterlogged the borders. In the fine intervals Pat weeded the crazy path and dipped the nitida hedge. She talked over the hedge to the next-door children and gave them hot cakes whenever she baked, and she played tennis on the public courts with the young couple who lived on the other side and a young relative of theirs. It was an unhurried, uncomplicated way of living. Pat had always been dose to her father and her affection for the cottage had roots deep down in her childhood. With the part of her which belonged to them she was happy; the rest was locked away. Hugh was a problem which she tackled on her first Wednesday at the cottage. He had come to tea on Sunday and treated her with the solicitude one extends to an invalid. Mr. Gordon's presence had sustained the balance. Later that evening her father had shaken his head oves Hugh. "I'm not sure I was wise to allow that young mad to attach himself to me, but I was sorry for him. He's

shaping fairly well and when this holiday is ovee S'll see to it that he stands alone." "Your befriending him has helped him to like Manbury, and indirectly influenced his work. Hugh's trouble is that now he has so much he's growing an appetite for more." Edmund Gordon had smiled. "You, too? Perhaps it's as well that he's going away for a month." He didn't take it seriously because, like other loving fathers, he considered his own daughter too young for marriage. To him it was no time at all since she had wore a school uniform and grumbled about homework. When Hugh turned up that Wednesday it was not by invitation. The morning sun, glaring from between two banks of doud, shone down upon his thick brown hair as he opened the gate, and gave a rather touching quality to the smile he at once tamed upon Pat. She straightened from staking young chrysanthemums, drew off her muddy gloves and beat them together. In an instant it ran through her mind that her father was out and there was no escape. Well, she was up to it, though she did hope he would not be too hurt. After all, she had never encouraged him, never on a single occasion sought him out, and it really had been rather odd of him to propose marriage when there had never been the smallest suggestion of love-making between them. "Hello," she said cheerfully. "I expect you're at a loose end all alone there at the school. Isn't it grim with no boys about?" "Slightly, but I've been lying around reading and sketching. I've been doing an awful lot of thinking, too." "That's a habit we all have. I find gardening the be& antidote for it." "I didn't particularly crave an antidote." Oh, Lord, she'd laid herself wide open. Pat pointed along the garden. "The ddphiniums are lovely, aren't they? The pale ones are from new roots which me Headmaster and my father are trying out together. Ours beat the Head's!" She stopped, aware of the futility of trying to lead him gently. A dentist doesn't lead up to the pulling of a tooth; he gets it over with. But Pat hadn't the dinica! approach. "My father's out," she said apprehensively.

"I hoped he would be, because . . . well, it's time we had a talk." He sounded uncertain of himself, and not too happy. "Since the day we spent together I haven't been able to make any plans or think ahead in any way because so much depends on you. I haven't even made any preparations for the tour of the Lakes." . "But you're going?" "I want to, but it's far less important just now than other things." He kicked a stone from the path. "You're not in love with me, are you?" "No," she said gently, relieved. "I'm not." His glance still downcast in absorbed contemplation of the stone flags, he said, "I must have been crazy, but men do these silly things — pick on a woman who's a thousand times too good for them and think they can rush her into marriage." "You're being unnecessarily harsh with yourself. I'm no better than any other woman, but you've allowed yourself to believe me the ultimate of perfection. I don't think you're really in love with me, Hugh. . . ." He looked up sharply, his face pale. -'That's a pretty heartless thing to say! You're the only girl I've ever wished to marry." "I'm not being callous," she protested. "You didn't give me a chance to finish. What I meant was 'that being established at the school, with the promise of a bungalow if you marry, has worked on you subconsciously. Probably most of your life you've longed to have a home and possessions, and marriage and a solid job are the apex of those desires. You should have gone about more, Hugh, met other girls." "You speak as if I'vs been walking around all my life with my eyes shut," he said bitterly. "I've met lots of women, but it happens to be you I want to marry, and no one dse." » "But it wouldn't be much fun to have a wife who didn't love you, would it?" This sobered Hugh. He raised a hand to adjust a nonexistent tie and found himself dragging at the open collar instead. The brown eyes were miserable. "Pat, couldn't we be engaged — just on trial? I wouldn't make any . o . any demands. I'm not the sort."

"It wouldn't be any good. Engagement are lowly aa<3 intimate when it's inevitable they'll be followed by mar° riage, but a trial engagement" — she gestured with the flat of her hand, appealingly — "it doesn't stand a chance because it isn't based on love. You must lealize that l€s bogus." "How can you know?" "It's something you fed. Being in love is so tremendously big that you can't mistake even the beginnings of it. That's why S doubted whether you were really in love with me." "But my love for you is big. I haven't beea able to think of anything else." With the suddenness of taming a tap the sun went ic and the wind's caress became a shrewd blast. Pat shivered. "You've been so busy with your own emotions that yoo haven't had time to bother with mine. I'm not in love with you, Hugh. I'm sorry, but I'm not now, and B never could be. And it's my conviction," she ended slowly, "that love can only be genuine when it meets a response in the other person. Any other kind is best lived down and forgotten." Something in her tone kept Hugh silent. He tamed and walked beside her along the path to the door. "Come in and have some coffee," she said. "My fatfaee will be back at any moment." He entered the lounge but did not follow her to the kitchen. Pat washed her hands, made the coffee and heaped a dish with jam fingers. She lingered a further minute os two till her father's voice was audible, then carried the tray along to the lounge. Mr. Gordon had spread across the arms of a chair a new map just purchased in Exeter, and he was pointing out the best walking roads ia the mountains around Wast° water. "We'll reach this point at the end of the first week," he was saying, with his forefinger on the map, "and I suggest we remain there and do some simple climbing. Did you borrow those studded boots, Dyson?" "No, I forgot." "Why was that? Is your enthusiasm running outf "No. I'll get theia,"

Gradually Hugh's awkwardness was worn down; perhaps renewed gusto was too much to expect of him just yet. "I'm taking a suitcase, and a rucksack large enough to hold pyjamas and a couple of shirts," Mr. Gordon told him. Quite often you wander too far to get back to the hotel or farmhouse the same night." "I'm in a quandry over laundry," said Hugh gloomily. "There seems to be no one left at the school who'll do it." "Bring it here," invited Pat. "Mrs. Moss will include it with ours." After more conversation about the tour Hugh got up from his chair. "I'll be going. Thanks for the coffee, Pat ... and for everything." When me sound of his footsteps had receded Pat felt a little depressed. She knew what it was to be unhappy and lonely, and she hadn't wanted to lose his friendship. She was horribly afraid she had, though. Her father had folded the map and was writing, in his neat script, on a sheet torn from an exercise book. "This is a list of the places we shall stay at and the approximate dates," he said. "I'll write you from most of ^ them and you must let me have a letter now and then." "There are still eight or nine days before you leave." He smiled at her. "In that case you may expect to have these instructions reiterated several times before I go. By the way, I didn't take the train to Exeter this morning. Simon Leigh ran me there in his car." "Simon?" It seemed ten yars since she had spoken the name aloud. "Where did you meet him?" "On the way .to the station. He asked how you were getting along." "Is everything as usual at Craigwood?" "Presumably. Why dqn't you go up there and see?" This was not easy to answer. Matron had said, "We won't dig you out of the cottage. Pat — that wouldn't be fair — but do come and see us as often as you can." Ralph had winked: "We're all going to miss those big grey eyes of yours." And Aunt Alison had kissed her and whispered, "Patricia, my dear, when I go back to Truro, you're going with me." After that Pat's smile bad been bright with tears.

- But it was Simon who had brought her to the cottage, Simon who had murmured with a malicious twist of the Sips, "So you're aching to get away from wonderful Craigwood and the Leighs. See that you have heaps of flirtatious fun, little one, and in the unlikely event of your needing any of us, you know where to find us." Pat was in doubt as to what he had intended to convey. Simon tore away everything, left not a single doubt anywhere except those which existed in connection with his own private life. "Not much can have happened since Sunday," she said now. Then she had to put the query; "Did Simon say anything worth repeating?" Her father lifted his shoulders. "He was rather silent — preoccupied, I thought. When we parted I suggested he come over, but he made the excuse of being too busy." Which confirmed Pat's previous convictions. He wouldn'6 call in at the cottage even if some business brought him this way, and if she went to Craigwood it would be tantamount to admitting defeat at his hands. It wasn't her staying with her father that he objected to. Pat had a horrible fear that he suspected part of the truth — that living in the same house with him had become unendurable. She prayed from the depths of her heart that he had not guessed why it had become unendurable. She asked n© more about him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE weather continued soggy, and Mr. Gordon continued to fume mildly because the grass grew longer every day and the hope of cropping it dose grew fainter. The garden fruit was not too good this year and it looked as if only the late apples would be worth picking. Mrs. Moss, on the other hand, had a fine show in her little garden at the other end of the village, and she brought Pat a large basket of egg plums for preserves and jam-making. It was this particular task which took Pat into Mrs. Chard's post office-cum-tackshop one morning. She was in search of greaseproof paper to tie over the jam, and as the wizened, red-cheeked old lady could be depended upon to rood® oat almost any oddment from one of hes boxes,

Pat pushed open the narrow door to the ping of the bell and went to the right-hand counter. To the left of the shop was the post office, and this morning Mrs. Chard was engaged with a heavily-built man whom Pat recognized with a dull shock as Max Bristow. Involuntarily, she watched him hand in his telegram and wait while the woman counted the words. To Pat he appeared vaguely different from how she remembered him; less square of shoulder, less healthy in color, and as he stood there his thickish fingers drummed on the massive and grubby blotter. Mrs.'Chard told him the cost and he paid. He tamed from the counter and gazed fixedly at Pat, or rather he seemed to gaze right through her. She said, "Good morning, Mr. Bristow." The ghostliest of smiles passed across his face, leaving blank. But he answered politely, "Good morning, Miss . . . er . . . Gordon," and passed out of the shop. Pat was mystified and uneasy. She began to ask Mrs. Chard for the greaseproof paper, but the postmistress leaned both arms on the counter and nodded pityingly at the door. "Poor man, he feels it," she commented. "He's so nice, too. It's mostly the nice ones who get the bad. luck." "Mr. Bristow? What bad luck?" "Haven't you heard? First his wife's ill, and now Dolbridge is up for sale." "Oh, no!" Pat was horrified. Her contact with Max had been of the most trivial, but even so she had gained a realization of how much his family home meant to him. Max Bristow without Dolbridge was nearly as impossible to visualize as the Leighs without Craigwood. What in the world could have brought about such a disaster?" "It's true enough," stated Mrs. Chardj relishing the role / of informant. "That telegram was about the same thing. They do say his wife is going to leave him for good, but I don't call that a sensible reason for selling up. Good riddance, I'd say, and may the second Mrs. Bristow make him happy. But men are funny," she finished wisely, "particularly the sort who'll take anything from a woman so long as she'll live with 'em half the year."

Pat still could not take it m. Even when a packet of grease-proof paper had been found under a heap of assorted shoe laces and she was threading along the narrow pavement with it in her hand, the knowledge had an aura of fantasy. No wonder the man had looked as though he were living with ghosts; perhaps they were the ghosts of his parents and grandparents, of bygone Bristows who rose to reproach him. Why sell house and farm if his wife was breaking the marriage? Already he was accustomed to being without her during the cold months, and surely his family traditions were too deeply ingrained to be sacrificed on the altar of his love for a woman who was not worthy of him? And what of Elise? The dosed portion of Pat's heart began painfully to throb. Elise was of the type to need a man. She might not love Max, might even despise him, but in spite of her seeming hdplessness she was too dever to dispense with one protector and provider before being certain that his place would be taken by another. Pat hated her thoughts and the surge of feeling which had prompted them. Rumors winged about the village with the speed and regularity of summer birds, and Mrs. Chard's shop had always been known as a nest of scandal. It might be true that Max was selling Dolbridge, but that Elise should decide while recovering from some mysterious illness to become independent of her husband was less credible. Back in the cottage Pat went ahead with her bottling and jam-making, and in the intervals between skimming stones from the boiling liquid she made a trifle and a honeycomb sponge, because she had suddenly made up her mind to invite the next-door children to tea; their mother was often worn out and would welcome a respite from thek frolics. When the jam was tied down it was time to prepare lunch, a cold one today to use up some of the garden salads which would otherwise go to seed during her father's absence. She would have to leave preserving the rest of me plums till tomorrow. It was not till evening, when her small neighbors had departed and Pat was gathering up sweet-wrappings and drink-straws from the grass, that she spoke to her father

about the matter which had lain very dose to the surface of her mind all day. "Darling, have you heard mat Mr. Bristow is selling Dolbridge?" Edmund Gordon finished lighting his pipe, flicked ou the match and carefully placed it among the debris she had collected. "Someone told me — I forget whom. The sale a place that size will take several months. The land is in very good shape, I believe." He was uninterested, she thought despairingly. In his time he had seen a good many regrettable happenings in his beloved countryside, and he was now of an age to accept them philosophically. She had often heard him say that it never did any good to look backward, that life was now and in the future, never behind. But what could the future hold for Max if the focal point of his existence were removed? For supper she made the toasted cream cheese sandwich that her father liked, and grilled some tomatoes. It was a tasty meal and tonight the coffee had an extra richness, but to Pat nothing had any flavor. She wished she could have a chat with Marion, but shrank from exposing her interest in the Bristows; she wished it were possible to make a friendly call upon Honour Willings, who knew more about Dolbridge than anyone else . , . except perhaps Simon. She had been in bed two hours and the church clock was sounding twelve benevolent chimes before she had reluctantly to condude that there was nothing whatever she could do. The week-end came and passed. On Sunday, Hugh spent a moody hour at the cottage in a further debate upon Lakeland, and he promised to come next Thursday evening to make final arrangements. On Monday, Mrs. Moss had a bumper washing day, and on Tuesday she and Pat shared the ironing. Mrs. Moss went off at four o'clock, and Pat left the dean things on the kitchen table 'and set out for a walk, There had been rain and the heavier trees still sent down spatters of drops on the wind. One grew so tired of the smell of rain, of seeing flower-petals glued together with it and rotting, and the grass growing rank. Even the farmers were saying they had had enough.

She reached the main street, looked fleetingly to the right, which was the way to Craigwood, and turned left. She would go as far as Wincott's corner, turn left again and dimb the other side of the hill towards the school. There was a footpath which ran along the school boundary and down towards the cottage. Pat was not walking fast, nor was she interested in the shop windows. Valiant holiday-makers, who had made the afternoon trip from the coast to enjoy the older part of the village, were thronging into the tea rooms, and vehicles of all kinds were parked each side of the road. Had Simon's car been less long and opulent she would have missed it. As it was she was nearly level with it before realizing to whom it belonged. The next second, of course, the whole interios was indelibly printed on her brain. Simon sat behind the wheel with one arm across it, and he was speaking urgently to the lovely creature at his side. Elise, delicately pale and small in a fine tweed coat which was both lined and collared with golden seal, a cap of golden seal on her head, looked fragile and appealing. She gestured aimlessly. Then Pat had passed on and round the corner. For fully five minutes she walked automatically aa
the local atmosphere. She couldn't go on living if Elise and Simon . . . Elise and Simon. No, that was something she would n stay to face! There was always London, the exciting round with Roy, the hectic gaiety which helped one to forget. Ten minutes later she came upon her father in the cottag garden. He looked up from rueful contemplation of a patch of slain slugs. "I can't imagine what this garden will look like by the end of August," he sighed. "I shouldn't worry. This spell must break, and when it does I'll get someone to help me put things right." He straightened, and his regard was keen, though he spoke without emphasis. "Let's take the evening bus into Exeter, have a meal there and go to the cinema. I haven't seen a film for about three years." "There's some mending to be done." "It can wait till tomorrov/. We needn't pack my staff till Thursday. Go on, my dear, put on one of your best frocks, and don't take longer than half an hour to make yourself pretty. I'll be ready before you are." Pat acquiesced and, feeling her father's gaze upon he as she went into the house, she made an attempt to appear jaunty. But much later, when she had battled through a restaurant meal, , sat out a not very good film and ^they were jolting homewards, her father put an anxious query. "Feeling quite well, Pat?" At once she answered, "Of course. A bit sleepy, that's all." "You know," he said, "we could still take you north us. I don't suppose Mrs. Leigh would object-." "If you were going alone I'd be inclined to ask for long leave, but a month of Hugh!" She had infused into her voice sufficient laughing distast to deceive him. Edmund Gordon relaxed. »a Next morning Pat tackled the mending. The sun was shining into the kitchen, so she sat near the open window with the table pulled near. It was a typical cottage kitchen, not all white tiles and chromium.

Her father's shirts and socks, thanks to Mrs. Moss, were in excellent condition, but Hugh's were deplorable. Not one of the ten pairs of socks was without a hole, and neither did Pat come across a shirt which was not minus a. button of so badly frayed at the cuffs that the only remedy was to tarn them. Most of his underwear needed repairs, too. None of his belongings showed signs of previous mending, and she guessed that the porter's wife who handled his laundry did only the minimum that was expected of her. This task she was doing exasperated Pat No man should be so thoroughly at the mercy of others. The last shirt finished, she tamed to the socks. She had just threaded the darning needle and pushed the mushroom down to the toe of a brown sock when the front bell rang. Still holding both sock and needle she went through and opened the door. For an expanding moment she stared up into the hazel-green eyes. Then she stood aside. "Hallo, Simon," she said lightly. "Come in." He did, and closed the door. He had not changed; tall, unsmiling and impenetrably cool, he followed her into the lounge. "My father's gone down to collect a rucksack which the saddler was to strengthen for him," Pat explained. "He shouldn't be long." "It was you I came to see." Simon took out cigarettes, "Have one of these and sit down." "I'm in the thick of running repairs which I daren't leave any longer. Care to say your piece id the kitchen?" His eyes narrowed. "Snappy, aren't you? Very well, lead me to the kitchen." She was nerving herself against the unknown. It has often been said that attack is the best form of defence, and .this morning, because all she seemed to have left was pride. Pat was desperately trying it out. In the kitchen she again sat in the chair near the window, but Simon did not take the one she .indicated; he came nearer and- sank on to the edge of the table. Again he offered cigarettes. "No, thanks," she said, still in the carefully airy tooe, "but you have one. What did you want to see me about?" "I happened to be coming this way and Marion asSeed me «.„ —n »•

A blow, this, though she had known he could have no personal reason. "That was nice of her." "Was it?" His look was cool and appraising. "Away from Craigwood you're bright and sparkling. I wonder why?" Assiduously plying her needle, her head bent, she replie "I think a change is good for everyone, and the simple life has always suited me. Any spedal message from Marion?" "Correspondence is piling up. She's dealt with some of it but she feels you know more than she does about the rest. I'm supposed to take you back to lunch." Pat had to let a minute or two slip by. Sunshine glinted over her bowed head and showed up each cloudy little tendril. Her tensed jaw was pale in the strong light. "I'll come after lunch," she said, "and stay till all me letters are cleared." "I thought you'd say that." Her hand gestured towards the pile of clothing. "Yens can see how busy I am." "Someone else does this for your father when you're not here," he said sharply. "These aren't my father's," she told him dearly, but without looking up. "They're Hugh Dyson's." The tension which had grown between them from the moment he entered the house was in a second drawn taut. "Dyson," he said in the amused, hateful tone he had employed before when speaking of the art master. "Why isn't he here to complete the domestic scene? How will you survive during the month he's away with your father?" "Surely you've heard the old saying about the effect of absence upon the awakening heart?" "Are you trying to annoy me, Patricia?" She glanced up, saw the warning glitter in his eyes, and looked away. "How would you feel if I could resist sneering at your friends?" she asked, managing a shrug. "I don't see that the fact that yours happen to be among tte wealthy entitles you to more consideration. After all . . o" "Be quiet," he said roughly. Pat's fingers were trembling, but somehow she pushed needle in and out, on and out. Her face was hot, her eyes blurred, and an obstruction had fanned in hes throat. lii

he couldn't be nice why didn't he stay away? If only hei father would come! She snipped the wool, laid aside the sock and needle and stood up. "Simon, will you please go now?" He ignored this, took another irritating pull at his dgarette and looked at her through the smoke. "When Marion next sees you she's going to ask why you haven't been to Craigwood since you left Sunday week." "If you're there when she makes her enquiries," said Pat none too steadily, "you'll be able to answer for me." With a weak effort to persuade the conversation into more normal channels, she added, "Are they well — Marion and Mrs. Cunliffe?" "Perfectly well. You'll have to do some explaining to Aunt Alison, too. The sweet thing has become incomprehensibly fond of you. She's keen to know whether Dyson has painted your portrait." "He hasn't," remarked Pat shortly. "I guessed that. He may aspire but he stops short of deeds — which shows that he has a modicum of good sense." He searched around for an ashtray and, finding none, he came beside Pat at the window and tossed his cigarette into a flwer bed. "I'll wait here while you change, Ritrica." "I'm not changing till after lunch." "Don't be stubborn, my child. I'm a bad enemy, and you know it. Go and change the housefrock for one of those stripy silks. They suit you." "I won't lunch at Craigwood," she stated flatly. "What you mean is that you won't lunch with me," he said mockingly. "You're afraid because I won't let you deceive yourself. I'm sorry, little one, but mis is one unpleasant fact you'll have to face. Either you'll come to Craigwood or I'll take my lunch here, with you and your father." She drew in her lip. "Since the night yon first came to Cumberland Square you've delighted in forcing me to do things against my will; you started right away, and have kept on. I'll never understand you, Simon." "You could try a little harder," he suggested. TV® still a few weeks to go." ^ :'

She fingered the catch of the window. "So your plans a unaltered. You're going?" "' His manner, as he tamed towards her, was shrewd. "Why should my plans be altered?" She tried to sound offhand. "Why, indeed? But you did change your mind once, when you came to Craigwood for the larger part of your leave." His mouth was thin and sardonic. "I din't change my mind, Patricia — you changed it. You called me a coward where Craigwood was concerned, and I couldn't let you get away with that. I had to prove to you that Craigwood couldn't keep me. It won't." Half-fearfully, half-glad, she thought, "He's only helping Elise. He doesn't want her. If he wanted her he'd have to stay." Then, like a cut from a whip, came the reminder that for years Elise had not spent a winter in England — and Simon would be bound for a warm dimate. The sick despondency engendered by the reflection kep her silent. She held on tight to the window-catch and willed her father to come back. And there at last he was, pausing over by the hedge before coming into the house. Softly, tauntingly, Simon said, "You're far worse than the village folk, my pet. Yesterday's gossip is dead as mutton to them. They like it piping hot." There was no time for a reply, even if Pat had had the ability to frame one, for Mr. Gordon saw them at the window and came straight to the back door. "Well, Simon," he said, "How are you? We don'i asually do our entertaining in the kitchen." "Didn't you get the rucksack?" enquired Pat. "Yes ... I must have left it on the garden seat. Are you lunching with us, Simon?" "Thank you," he said politely, with a faint but sharp grin at Pat. "I'd like to very much." Paying no attention to the fast beating of her heart. Pat began to dear the things from the table. "You two had better leave me to it, then. Don't look forward to a banquet, Simon. It'll be modest and cold." "Exactly what I'd expect from you, Patrica," he answere sucdnctly, after which he accompanied her father to the sitting-roqca,

Tiny, cautious wings of pleasure took possession of her spirit. Not happiness, for there was too much bitterness in. her love for Simon for that. But it was good to prepare for him salad and fruits, to open a predous tin of tongue and make an orderly pile of cheese straws. Lucky that she had managed to obtain such an excellent quality coffee. Everything helped. When all was ready she washed and, without an instant's hesitation, chose the green-and-white striped silk frock. He was getting his own way again, but what did it matter so long as it gave one delight, however acid-sweet? She had to make the most of the moment, because in a few weeks from now he would be speeding away to the othee side of the world. CHAPTER FIFTEEN' AUNT ALISON was puzzled and mildly upset, a condition which was not improved by the fact that Charlotte had taken to her bed with a cold. Not that she disapproved of people lying up with a cold; indeed, she had insisted on Charlotte's resting completely and given Edna a pound note to ensure the prompt serving of meals to the top-floor bedroom. But to Mrs. Cunliffe life was never whole unless Charlotte were at hand for discussions. Her companion had a large fund of what is known as "horse-sense", and Aunt Alison had come to rely on the matter-of-fact leavening to her own wishful deductions. A woman of seventy, she admitted to herself, did tend to take the roseate view, particularly of the circumstances surrounding those she cared for. And since coming to Craigwood she had discovered that apart from Charlotte there were three people she loved very much, and a fourth of whom she was becoming exceptionally fond. But it seemed as if fate were wretchedly determined that nothing should come right for any of them. She ought to be grateful, of course, that Simon had definitely set a time limit to his travelling, but it is an incontrovertible fact that once one has assimilated an item of good news one grows dissatisfied with me limitations

that still remaffl. She wasted the best fof Simon; she always had. She wanted his children here at Craigwood, playing by (he river and hunting imaginary lions in the woods as she had played and hunted so many years ago with her brother, his\father. She wanted him to have a wife he adored, and so much the better, naturally, if the wife adored him, too, though Aunt Alison could not imagine any woman not adoring Simon once he had chosen to lavish upon her all' the tenderness and passion of which she knew him to be capable. There was little one could do about Simon, though. One watched and heped, that was all. Marion presented a different problem, yet one couldn't get to the bottom of that, either. The available facts were simple: a bond of friendship existed between Marion and Ralph Sedgwick, and it was the type of friendship which was doing no end of good to both of them. No one admired feminen poise more than Mrs. Cunliffe, but she preferred it to spring from confidence in one's own womanhood, no£ from pride in one's organizing and business ability. Marion was a fine-looking woman who carried her years with grace and dignity, and on the surface it would appear that she and Ralph could make each other happy. Till today, Aunt Alison had had no doubt that given time those two would marry. Without Charlotte by her side she did not care to dwell upon the silent half-hour at the luncheoa table. She leaned back in her garden chair and allowed her knitting to slip forward to her knees. This was her favorite position, where she could look out across the lawns and see the river all gleams of silver among the willow branches and the pastures the other side splodged with cattle. It was still coot; such a pity to have to wear a tweed suit and a woolly jumper on the high days of summer. A car sounded on the drive and her head tamed so that she could watch it appear at the bend. Ah, Simon, with Pat. Her glance followed the big burgundy car round to the front steps; he was talking of shipping the thing to the West Indies. They got out of the car simultaneously, both doors wide, then slammed. Pat came straight across the

grass, bent and shyly touched her lips to Aunt Alison's temple. "So you came at the call of duty, Patricia." "I'm sorry." She was smiling slightly, aad flushed. "You see ..." "It was my fault she didn't come before," put in Simon lazily. "Let's leave it like that." "I suppose it was also your fault she didn't get here to lunch?" "I suppose it was, darling. Let the child run indoors and tap her typewriter. You can speak to her later." "I mean to," said Aunt Alison firmly. After Pat had crossed to the steps and disappeared into the house, Simon had crossed to the steps and disappeared into the house, Simon lowered himself to the grass and lay; resting on one elbow. Aunt Alison contemplated the top of his sleek head. "I wish you had got here to lunch, Simon," she said on a sigh. "I was never very good at handling silences." "Did you have to eat alone?" "No — I can enjoy occasional solitariness. Marion and Ralph were here but they behaved as if they weren't — as if the other weren't, if you know what I mean." Simon shifted so that he could see her face. "Really? Why was that?" "I haven't a notion. They were all right before they went out. People like those two don't quarreL ..." "So they went out. Where to?" "Nowhere in particular. Ralph decided to tiy his new car on a good stretch of road and Marion went along with him. They were gone about an hour. I didn't see them again till we met, in the dining-room in an atmosphere of considerable constraint." "Where are they now?" "Marion's either in her room os with Pat. Ralph, I believe, went to the boathouse." Simon thought for a moment and then shrugged. "They're both middle-aged and full of sense. It isn't our business." "But it's worrying, especially as Ralph is usually so undaunted. Couldn't you have a talk with him ?" Simon sat up straight and said emphatically, "I could not! Men don't pry into one another's affaiiSg, my sweefc

It may have been something quite trivial — perhaps Ralph driving is not so good as Marion's, and she told him so." "Be serious, Simon." "You're serious enough for both of as. Your trouble, my dear aunt, is that you're continually on the alert for romance. You can't see a man and a woman together without slipping an idyllic backdoth behind them. I'll admit I invited Ralph down here because he admired Marion and I thought it might come to something, but I'm not doing any pushing. If they have had a row, let them stew as others have to, until one of them gives in." "You're so hard, dear boy." "No, I've merely learned how to deal with the emotion aps and downs of existence," he said abruptly. Not by any means relieved, she sat examining his profile; it was dark and fine-drawn, the mouth compressed at mis' corner as if his thoughts were unpleasant. Simon the incalculable, ever anxious to yield sympathy when it was needed, but ruthless when another's trouble touched a nerve centre in his own being. She wondered yearningly whether, when all this unfortunate business with me Bristows was over, he would find pea.ee with that woman, ®r with someone else. The pause between them must have lasted nearly ten minutes when Ralph came up the slope from the river. BOA saw him but neither spoke till he had strolled right no to the hedge and through the rose garden to the lawn. "Still on that boat?" queried Simon. "You sea-chaps are noted for tenacity." Ralph stood with his hands in his pockets, his tanned, lined face towards the river. His usual smile was absent, but there was nothing else remarkable about him. "She's not a bad craft," hs observed. "Nearly good enough to go to sea." "You'll have to try sailing her down the river to the mouth." Simon paused. "Aunt Alison tells me yon tried-" out the new bus this morning. How did it go?" Ralph hitched his slacks and sat down in a canvas chair. "Quite well —- couldn't get np much speed, of course, but i£ ran smoothly." "The Marlsea road?"

He nodded. "We didn't drive right in to Marlsea. GoE a cigarette, Simon? I left mine in my room." For a moment or two he was engaged with the lighting of the cigarette. Simon lit up, too, and Aunt Alison thought how pleasant it would be to have these two mea beside her, at ease, if only there were no fretting under" currents. Unnecessarily, Ralph tapped away ash. "It's grand here — I've enjoyed every day of my stay. but I shall have to be getting back to town." "Oh, but no!" cried Aunt Alison. "We love having you here, and you've said yourself how uncomfortable it is in that beastly club. We've all taken it for granted you won't leave before Simon does." "It's kind of you," Ralph said evenly, "but I can't impose upon your hospitality for so long, and I'm afraid I have business that can't wait." "Business ?" she echoed. "Ralph has connections with a City firm," said Simon easily. "He was uncertain whether to enter the business world or sail the south seas. Apparently business has it." "How disappointing." She looked pleadingly at Ralph. "Do you really have to go?" Again it was Simon who answered. "Such matters have their importance in the scheme of things, Aunt Alison. Maybe Ralph will come back later." "I do hope so . . ." She felt Simon's swift and surreptitious tag at her hand which hung over the arm of her chair, and ended, "Well, these things happen, don't they? When are you leaving, Ralph?" "Tomorrow morning, straight after breakfast. I apologize for not having mentioned this before, but I wasn't certain." He got to his feet. "I think I'll go in and wash . Excuse me." His depatmre was followed by a long-drawn breath from Aunt Alison. "Don't say it," advised Simon. "The man knows his own mind. None better." "You were no help at all," she said tartly. "If you lei him go to London they'll be parted for ever." Simon had pushed himself upright and was looking down at her. "My dear," he said, in the dipped tones she

dreaded, "I've told you before that yoor viewpoint is oat" moded. These days, when a man and woman get annoyed with each other it's done with sophistication. The womac doesn't melt into tears, neither does the man grovel. No doubt when you were younger such incident ended swiftly and sentimentally, but the world has changed." "For the worse!" she interjected. "The world has become a poor place if a man won't help his friend to find happiness." "Ralph's better left alone till he's had time to do some thinking. He's a sailor-man and used to thinking alone. Besides, how do we know that this has any connection with his private feelings for Marion?" In sudden anger he said, "If I hear anything more about this, or any furthes veiled comments about Elise, I'll dear out myself!" Her hand went out to him in a gesture of contrition. "Simon, I'm so sorry. I'm really only concerned that yoo and Marion shall be happy." "Yes, I know." His anger cooled, he lightly touched hes hair. "We're all getting on edge over other people's affairs, which is silly but somehow unavoidable. I have to go out Shall I get you a book?" She shook her head. "I'll knit. Will you be gone long?" 'Till about five-thirty. Get Pat to stay and I'll drive hee down later." Aunt Alison did not at once start to knit. She listened to the receding noise of the car and thought how far ws sometimes become removed from those we love most. With Simon she had occasionally achieved a warm current of understanding which had made up for his rare cruelties. He didn't intend to be cruel, she knew that. It was simply that some inddent, some twist of conversation would make him go hard and cold as stone, and in those moments no one was immune.

There was quite accumulation of mail for Pat's attention. Sodeties were drawing up their winter programmes, making np theis asoimts, asking for advice and financial assistance,,

and suggesting that Mrs. Leigh was bound to attend this os that meeting. The requests had come in a flood. When she had been working for about ten "minutes,, Marion had come into the room. "Nice to see you. Pat," she had said. "Need any assistance?'" "I don't think so. Do we still tell everyone yon're here till the end of September?" Marion had nodded. "You'll see I've pinned cheques to the letters where subscriptions are due. I'll leave you to get on with them." Momentarily, Pat was uneasy. It was not in Marion's nature to be effusive, but neither had the coolness of her greeting been quite normal. Equally to be rejected was the thought that Marion "might be hurt because she had stayed away from Craigwood. Marion had no pettiness; had she felt at all strongly about the matter she would have brought it at once into the open. No, Marion's remoteness had nothing to do with Pat. Inevitably, she speculated about it, and just as inevitably she traced the source to Simon . . . and Elise Bristow. Poor Marion was depressed. Pat hit the wrong key and pulled up in her thoughts. She must not think of Simom now; there was too much to do. At four-fifteen Mansell, his chin held high in disap° proval, brought a single cup of tea with a biscuit in the saucer. His leave was over and he was probably sharing duties with Parker, an arrangement which apparently did not suit him. Mansell was acustomed to taking care of an empty house and earning a second income as the school shoe repairer in his ample spare time. Pat finished typing the last letter soon after five. She signed and sealed the batch and carried them through to the hall. There was no one about, no fires lit yet, and she felt drawn to peep into the familiar drawing-room with its Hepplewhite chairs and the great bowl of white and orange gladioli on the top of the piano. From there she went on to the morning-room, and for a while she stood near the closed french window, remembering the last breakfast they had had in the open doorway and the scents from the herb-garden which had inextricably mingled with the more robust odors from the kitcheoo 155

"I beg your pardon o . . Oh, it's yoo. Pat" Ralph had entered the room, smiling formally. He dropped 8, newspaper into the seat of a chair. "3 rather like this loom, too. It's cosy and has pleasant assodatioas. Are yoc back at Craigwood for good?" "No, and I'm only a temporary resident a£ me best of Simes. How is our ship going?" He brightened a little. "I've fixed the new trim in me cabin and ifs smartened her up. I've put in a couple of fold-up bunks as well. She's fit to take quite a trip. Care to go down with me and inspect?"' "Of course, I'd love to." He opened the french window, went with her into the garden and slipped a hand into the crook of her elbow. His conversation on the way down' to the river was mainly nautical, and as he moved agilely about the boat and explained the renovations and improvements they both became absorbed. Finally, Pat looked at her watch. "Ifs ten to six, and I have to cook dinner this evening! I must run, Ralph." "How are you going home " "I expect Simon will take me.'" "He's not back yet from Dolbridge. I haven't heard the car." "From . . . Dolbridge?" It was less a question than a pained echo. "Are you sure he's gone there?" "Mrs. Bristow telephoned him this morning. I heard him promise to go over." Ralph leapt up to the bank and leant a hand. "It's sticky here, through the rain. Be careful." When she had gained a foothold and was walking with him slowly towards the house, Pat said, "Ralph, is it true that Elise and Max are to be divorced?" "I don't know." His glance at her was knowledgeable and troubled. "That illness of hers wasn't physical, you know. She had some sort of nervous collapse, and a woman of her type would take every advantage of being me centre of attention. Why don't you ask Simon?" "I'm not that interested." But there was a small quiver in her voice. "Simon cares for her, doesn't he?" "That's another thing I don't know. He never talks about her, but he does have dark moods. You know. Pat" — he was smiling sadly -=• "Craigwood is deceptive. On the

ourface, it's heart-warming, and you feel that nothing could ever go wrong there, but if you stay long enough yon discover that it's only beautiful bricks and mortar set m green acres," "If you really believe that, you've never felt the spirit of the place. I suppose the spirit of a house is the result of black patches as well as of all the happiness which has existed there. Marion's only a Leigh by marriage, but she feels it, too." This met no response. They went on walking, companionably quiet, and presently they were back in the house and Aunt Alison was hailing them from the drawing-room. "I want a chat with you, Patricia," she said. "Come and sit down with me on the chesterfield." "I really must go," Pat protested. "My poor fatheiE deserves one hot meal a day." "At least have a cocktail with us. Will you mix them, Ralph?" She tamed to Marion, who sat in an armchair with an unopened book on her lap. "You'll have one, won't you, Marion?" "Yes, please." Marion glanced at Pat. "What time shall we collect you on Friday?" Still in that lifeless voice;, Pat noticed. "My father leaves early to catch the express to London, but I shall hang on to help Mrs. Moss to clean the house. . . ." The telephone rang in the hall. Marion nodded towards the door. "Will you answer it. Pat?" The telephone table was to the left of the staircase and some way from the drawing-room. Pat lifted the receives and sank down on the damask-covered stool. "Craigwood," she announced automatically. "Is that you, Patricia?" She pushed back her hair with an unsteady hand. 'Yegg Simon." "Wouldn't it be wonderful," he said mockingly, "if w® knew each other's thoughts as quickly as we know each other's tones?" "It might be dull. Do you wish to speak to Marion?" "It isn't necessary. I rang up to let you know that I may be a bit late. I thought it would be a good idea to get your father up to dinner. Ralph will fetch him." 157

"My father's busy. You don't have to bother about as, Simon. I'm sure you have enough to worry you." "That," he said, with an inflection which brought glinting green eyes before her vision, "sounds dangerously like one of those remarks which start fires, but I refuse to rise to it over the telephone. I'll be there as soon as I can." She was driven by a treacherous impulse to put a question: "Where are you?" An almost imperceptible pause. "At Exeter — I had to meet a man here." She felt as he uttered the words that it was a lie. He was at Dolbridge, but so heartily sick of his actions being ' queried that it was less trouble to prevaricate than to tell the truth. Pat felt a clamminess in fhe palms of her hands and at her temples, and an anguish filled her throat. Her fingers tightened round the receiver. "Are you there, Pat?" he demanded peremptorily. Unevenly, she replied, I'm going home now — and^ please don't come to the cottage again. I'll make my own arrangements with Marion." "Pat, don't be a damned idiot. I'm coming right away. You only have to wait for a bit. . . ." "Leave me alone, Simon," she almost choked. "Do me a kindness — and leave me alone!" Before he could reply to that she had dropped the receiver into place. She stood very still, suffering the torture of trying not to cry, and in a moment or two the worst of the nightmare had passed and she was able to go into the drawing-room. "It was Simon," she said. "He'll be a little late." "Well, never mind." Aunt Alison's cheerfulness had a spurious lustre. "It's nice that he remembered to telephone. He doesn't always." Marion looked up from sipping her drink. "Before you went out we were trying to decide what time to pick you up on Friday." Pat felt better now; horribly empty, but less likely to break into tears. "When will you meed me to do some more work?"

"We're deaf now. Anything else that: tarns op ea® remain over till the middle of next -week." "In that case, I'll come along next Tuesday or Wednes° day. If you should need me before then, send Edna. She loves a jaunt to the village." "But you don't want to be at the cottage alone, Patf °Tes, I do," she said baldly. There was a long silence filled by the measured tide ©f me Empire dock on the mantelpiece. Pat had never previously noticed it, even when she had been alone in the room. No protestations followed the silence; even Aunt Alison only smiled sorrowfully, as if acknowledging that anything could happen on a day like this;, with Charlotte laid up. \ "You really mean to stay on at the cottage — not to go away?" Marion asked quietly. "It needs a spring-clean and my father's anxious about me garden. We haven't been able to do much outdoors because of the rain." "I don't like your being there alone." '"I'll be safe enough. There hasn't beeo a crime iffl Manbury for ten years. If it's all right with you, I'll go now." "Walking?" Til take you," offered Ralph. "Have your drinfe while I get the car out." It was all very stilted and polite, with not a single objection raised once they had accepted the fact that she wanted to be alone at the cottage. Pat said good-bye to Aunt Alison and Marion, took her place in Ralph's small but comfortable car and felt, as they moved smoothly away, as if she were leaving the most vital part of herself behind. Two willow-wrens were perching on one of the pillars when they reached the gates, and with a flick of the wings they were off towards their nests near the river. In the hedges foxgloves still bloomed among cow parsley, and the acorns which drooped over the lane were fat and as green as the leaves among which they grew. Growth, and the blue-grey sky overhead; ths

"So you've bought a car," Pat commented, for something to say. "It's a very nice one. I suppose you' won'S 630 sailing a ketch through Polynesia, after all." i "I may yet, if I can't settle back into a London dub." "What about the house yon were going to buy at Marlsea?" "Oh, that," he said. "What would I find to do at Marlsea?" "For a start you could build little boats, and after that you could build bigger ones." "Not a bad idea. I'M thing it mes" "Seriously?" He gave her a brief, sideways smile. "Yes, seriously. It never occurred to me before, but I believe that's what S'd like to do more than anything." "I'm sure it is. You know so muds about boats. Marlsea is a good spot for it, too." 'The Sussex coast might be better, and trade would b good round there." Pat differed from him, and the point was still un- \ decided when he pulled up at the cottage. As she made to get out of the car he held out a hand. "This is good-bye. Pat. I go to London in me moming." She met his steady gaze and the exdamation which ro to her lips was stilled. "Do you? Good-bye, then." ' "We'll do another concert when the season starts."' • "Yes, I'd love that." Their hands parted, he reversed the car and was gone. Pat was conscious of the long day dying, and of the sadness and despair imprisoned within her. She knew a sharp need that was pain, the sting of withheld tears. Then' came her father's affectionate tones; "All right, Pat?" "Of course," she returned at, once. "The weather's improving, espedally for you."

CTJA'DT'TGTR1 ©T'^^IDTS T^T JrlArAilK SiAlJnCr'jr PAT was up at down oa Friday to speed her father aad Hugh Dyson on their way to the Lakes. She had said nothing about staying on at the cottage, not from a fear that her father would be against it but because he would naturally assume that all was not well between his daughter and the Leighs. He ate a light breakfast, shouldered his mcksadk and took firm hold of his suitcase. Pat walked with him to the station, along the 'deserted main street and down the short cut between the wheat-fields. The newly-risen sun was benign over the land, the birds already noisy with summer bliss. She wished with unbearable intensity that she were going with him, that the two of them might dimb the mountains and gaze from above with awe upon those magnificent cradled lakes, and, at the end of each day, find themselves spent and full of sleep. Hugh was on the tiny platform, his two pieces of luggage propped one against the other while he smoked a cigarette. He smiled, and in the morning light he looked brown and boyish and healthy, the misery sensibly put behind him. There was nothing wrong with Hugh, thought Pat. Considering everything, he had behaved naturally and even with a certain amount of charm, and certainly he had not lacked dignity. He didn't make hes feel a beast any longer. The train was on time and stopped only for a few minutes. Hugh shook Pat's hand, her father kissed her, "You'll hear from me soon. Don't lose that list of out stopping places, and wire if you're im any sort of difficulty." "I will. Eat lots of good food." A few more trite observations, the shrill blast from a whistle, and the train moved out. Pat went home the way she had come, but now the main street was stirring, and dogs, let out after a night in kennels and under kitchea tables, barked joyfully with the sheer zest of living.

Mrs. Moss arrived at the cottage at nine o'clock. She was a soothing companion, full of homely sayings and bits of advice. She was not noticeably a hard worker, but in the course of that day the two bedrooms were thoroughly deaned, the curtains washed and ironed, and the two dowa° i stairs rooms cleared for tomorrow's action. "This being the holiday week-end, I'm taking the children to my sister's for three days," the woman said comfortably. "We don't go till tomorrow afternoon. Will you be needing me next week?" Pat hadn't realized that it was the August week-end. As though recalling something from a dream she thought of this time last year, when she had spent much time with Roy, at picnics and the races, and dining and dandng at an hotel. Gaiety and Roy were inseparable. "My father's vacation is yours, too," she said. "Comein again a day or so before he's due back." "What about the key? I mostly keep it." "If I return to Craigwood I'll let you have it." "If", not "when". It seemed impossible that she could ever again live in Simon's house. While Mrs. Moss polished and scrubbed on Saturday morning. Pat went out to buy cream paint, two large tins of it, and some brushes. She v/ould freshen up all the woodwork in her father's bedroom. It ought to have been done before the cleaning but with care there would be little mess, and in any case she could mop up as she went along. If it kept dry for a spell she would also be able to put in some hours on the garden. Time never dragged when there was always another job just ahead. It was a fine, still day without being too hot. The cottages, amber and agate in the sunshine, were brushed over in places with the sage-green of lichen, the gardens were crowded with fuchsias, dwarf dahlias and roses, and glimpsed between walls were haystacks sheltering under beeches and oaks, and orchards growing with fruit. The church spire pointed up from the elms, immutable, up» right and reassuring. There was the smell of baking bread, the slumbrous , murmur of bees, the call of the wood-pigeon, and the homely burr of muted chatter.

At one 0'dods Mis. Moss roISed ap her house shoes in her apron and went off to her home. Pat ate sliced tomato and some lettuce and drank two cups of coffee. Too restless to read, she ran up to her father's room, and calculated all that could be done to improve it It was no use; she had to get busy. She put on a pale green flowered overall, found a bottle of turpentine and some dean pieces of old sheeting, looked around in the shed for some fine sandpaper. She was halfway back to the door when a cyde bell pinged fiercely at the front gate, and Edna waved frantically from &e road. "Can I bring the bike to the shed, Miss Gordon?" "Yes, if you want to." Pat remained on the pam, mystified but, in spite of herself, relieved to see the girl's round young figure advancing towards her. "Have you brought a message from Mrs. Leigh?" Edna giggled. "I'm the message. You're not to be allowed to stay in me cottage alone. I've got to keep yoa company." "How nice. By whose orders?'8 "Mr. Leigh's. There's been a fuss np at the house. It seems he told Mrs. Leigh I was to come yesterday and she took no notice. The minute he saw me this morning he asked what the devil I was doing at Craigwood. You should have heard him! Everyone's fed up and Admiral Sedgwick's gone. Honest, I was glad to get away." The bicycle was locked up and Edna, carrying a small ease, followed Pat into the kitchen. The girl's eyes glanced appreciatively at the dean, homely room, the blowing muslin curtains. "This is going to be fun. Miss Gordon. For a start shall I brew a cup of tea?" - "Suits me," said Pat. "Make it tea for two and bring it up to the front bedroom." Upstairs again, she stood by the window gazing down at the garden. Having Edna here eased the tautness inside her but it also naged like a nerve pain. If Simon would stop being thoughtful, if his steeliness were utter and complete, she could hate him. Edna was singing away downstairs in her sweet, onteamed voice. The song was a new one on the oldest theme 163

of all. Pat drew back from the window and resolutely tagged the cork from the bottle of turpentine. The next few days were planned, and beyond them she refused to look

Edna tamed out to be quite good with a paint brush. While Pat did the door, picture rail and skirting board, she tackled the window-frames because, as she artlessly confessed, she liked to watch the passers-by and the neighbors. If the least thing was happening outside she kept up a commentary. "There goes the assistant from the drapes. All dressed up, she is, and got a boy friend with her — seem to know him from somewhere. My! You should see those little rips next door — they must' be playing aeroplanes., The girl's pretty, isn't she? I'd rather have girls than boys — my mother says they're easier to rear and more amenable. That's a good-looking man who lives the other side, isn't it? Is the redhead his sister or his wife? You don't say! They can't have been married long. There's a dog among the delphiniums. Shall I shoo him out?" And so on. In the intervals when events beyond the window were at a standstill, Edna plunged into descriptions of her family; and friends in London. Though she wore no watch, she was infallibly aware of the time for morning coffee, lunch or afternoon tea, and she looked disgmnted if Pat decided to eat in the kitchen. She much preferred to serve a meal for one in the dining-room, and read a magazine while eating her own share near the kitchen window. Pat slept in her father's bedroom with door and windows wide, and Edna had the other room. From habit the girl rose at six each morning, and she would have been hurt if Pat had not remained in bed for early tea. Pat heard her jesting with the milkman and calling "Good morning!" to people passing up the road. The inevitable trilling accompanied the cooking of breakfast, and a few fresh flowers always adorned the dining-table. They were not working all the time. There were walks ap to the school and through the grounds, saunters along

the village bank of the river, and a bus ride dmm to te sea. Pat bathed, but Edna distrusted the rollers. "I'll never understand what folks see in throwing mem° selves about in cold water," she said. "I like dipping my toes — it cools you down — but that horrible coldness all over you!" She shuddered, and let the wavelets lap hes ankles. She was refreshing and without guile, she was as cage? as Pat that the garden should be made trim. "Don't you push that mower," she protested. 'Til do that. You tickle around with the soil." "I've cut this grass dozens of rimes." "But I don't care to see you do it. Yon don't look right behind that thing. You attend to the borders, Miss Pafc I'm just as likely to pull out a flower as a weed." On Tuesday she cyded up to Craigwood and broughi back a letter from Mr. Gordon for Pat. She hadn't seen any of the "family". Parker had given her the letter and told her the house was "sombre, very sombre". He had even darkly hinted that had his wife not been afBicted with chronic rheumatism, and had he himself been a youngee man, he might have tried to get a different sort of pos£ altogether. He detested Mansell. Pat went to the garden seat and opened her letter. Hee father had moved on from Keswick to Grasmere and, sut° prisingly, he and Hugh had parted company. Dyson's too lazy to dumb (he wrote), so he's arranged to stay at a farm for the rest of the month and paint scenes more or less from the doorstep; there happens to be a nice daughter there, so he should be happy. I'm not sorry; I'm of an age to want to please myself. It's astonishing how easily one picks np conn° panions in these spots — I haven't yet opened one of those heavy volumes I brought with me, and S promised myself a good read every night. I'm writing as if I've been here for months instead of a couple of days, but the timelessness of this district has that effect. Tomorrow, with a couple of men who are residents here, I'm hoping to have a go at Helm Crag. The weather is dry but doudy . . o

There was me usual affectionate ending and a reminder that she must write regularly. Pat slipped the letter into her pocket and got on with the gardening. It was strange, she reflected, how almost emy person one met along the byways of life had some particular, if tiny, significance. If Hugh had not been importunate she might now be enjoying the peace of the Lake District with her father, but then she would never have known the best about Edna. Even Ralph Sedgwick of the grizzled hair, and skin whipped into creases by sea winds, had subtly influenced her thoughts, because he was able to see Craigwood as mere stone walls amid fair acres. Several times since speaking with him last Wednesday she had recalled his disturbing pronouncement. Had she and Marion been wrong to attribute so much power to Craigwood? Was it foolish to feel that the generations of Leighs had built something of themselves into the house — not the old furnishings and, pictures, but something intangible, beautiful and imperishable? Pat co not relinquish a partide of her love for the place, but it had received a jolt, because she had thought that everyoae who lived mere must come to feel the same. It had nothing to do with personal happiness, that feeling. One could be desperately unhappy and completely without hope — as she was in the darkness of the small hoars — ye£ still experience me pull of Craigwcod. The next day she walked to Craigwocd, leaving Edna behind. She hesitated where the path ran up through the woods, but passed on. She had no wish to remember too dearly the day she had been caught there by rain and met by Simon. Nor, perhaps, would it be wise to arrive un° conventionally from the garden. But it wouldn't have mattered, for when she did reach &e front drive no one was in sight. The house, drenched in sunshine, was dim, cool and noiseless inside. Pat made her way to the larger of the kitchens and found Parker there, cleaning the silver. He was polite but unable t® smile. "They're all out. Miss Gordon. Mrs. Leigh thought yoa might come, and she said I was to tell you she hoped to> be home to lunch. Ms, Leigh has taken Mrs. Cunfiffe to Dolbridge.'"

due back?" "Late this afternoon, I think. Mrs. Cunliffe was very (Exdted." Pat said, "When Mrs. Leigh returns I'll be in the office, Parker." Until she was actually standing at the desk in the office Pat held herself rigid. Then, slowly, she subsided into a ehair and bent her face into her hands. Aunt Alison departing excitedly with Simon for Dolbridge could mean only one thing. Pat did not dwell on that one thing, but she did yield for a few minutes to the flood of anguish. Presently she straightened and slit the envelopes which had accumulated in the mail basket. None of the letters called for a complicated reply, and she was able to handle them at once. The work took her less than an hour. The task finished, she paused, extracted a sheet of papee from the drawer and began to write DEAR MAKIOM, All the correspondence has bees <3ea!t with. May I have a talk with you some time tomorrow, preferably down at the cottage? Ifs a private mattes.

aAJlo

It -was saappy, but: Pat fe!t toe ragged to rise to anything better. She addressed an envelope, sealed the note within it and placed it on top of the typewriter. Then, quickly, she ran upstairs to the bedroom she had occupied and thrust most of what she had left there into her trunk. Edna could come up and arrange with Parker to have it sent to the cottage. Pat went from the house decisively, without taming her head. Craigwood was behind her, lopped off like a limb. There was nothing to be wretched about; she had known for a long time it would have to come to this. It hurt; of course it hurt. Losing part of oneself always did. But she was grown up and possessed of a certain amount of wisdom. There were other things in the world besides mellow houses; me world was crammed with lovely

She saw how stupid it was to slip into a rat where one set of people were all-important. She had imagined herself fortunate to be taken up by Marion, had even known a glow of pride in the growing fondness of Aunt Alison. The only person about whom she had never entertained the smallest illusion was Simon, Her brain was anything but clear, and she was breathless from fast walking. She came to the almost empty main street and dropped the letters into the post-box, tamed back to the kerb and found -the burgundy car drawn up and Simon geting out of it. There was no sign of Aunt Alison, He came round to the pavement, his aquiline features betraying no emotion of any kind. "Good morning," he said. "Can I give you a lift, or do you still wish to be left alone?" "I'd rather walk," she managed. "It isn't far." "I understood you were going to Craigwood today." "I've just been. There wasn't much to do." "Am I the reason you've hurried away?" She shook her head, not looking at him. "I was told you weren't expected back till late this afternoon." "Well, you intended to be gone before then, I'm sure. If you should feel an urge to see Marion or to pamper Aunt Alison during the next day or two you needn't be afraid of my being in your way. I'm going up to town in the morning." "I see," she said stiffly. "I'll remember that.'8 His glance was keen, his tone sharp. "Have you been dying?" "Good Lord, no," she answered swiftly. "I've nothing to cry about." "And if you had you're hardly likely-to confide in m'e!" he crisply finished for her. "Come and sit in the car. I've • a few things to say to you." She knew a moment of unbearable temptation. Why deny herself this offer of brief intimacy? But, no! her rocking sanity warned her. She had keyed \ herself to renounce the Leighs, and to slide back now would be fatal. ' ' ;• • • Simon' was angry with her, coldly, viciously angry — because she 'had made it plain that she wanted him to

ignore her existence. Maybe mat was best. If they spoke together reasonably till the anger cooled he would become mocking and teasing and intolerably dear. She would have it all to go through again. As if accepting her silence for consent he raised a hand to grasp her 'arm, but before he could touch her she had jerked away. "We've nothing to discuss, Simon. And please excuse me now. I have to go to the post office." His teeth snapped. "I've had about enough of mis. Get in the car!" "You've had enough," she blazed at him. "You've stood iiofchmg at all from me ... nothing. But I've had to put up with malice and cynicism and anything else you cared to hand out! You've been good to me occasionally, I'll admit that, but since . . ." She broke off, white-faced and quivering, but before he could insert a word, exdaimed, "I'm sick of it, Simon. I'm tired to death of having to brace myself every time we meet. Even living at the cottage I'm never free of the fear of running into you." "Fear!" he echoed harshly. "Can't you understand?" Her voice rose and aadced, but because she saw someone come out of a nearby shop she strove to lower it. "I don't want to see you. If it were possible I'd never see you again!" "That dears the air, at any rate," he said with uncanny quietness. "Fear is pretty close to hate. All right" — on a sudden, savage note — "you cam stop being frightened. Nice to have known you. Pat." He swung away and so did she. Blindly she hastened along to the post office and bought some stamps. When she came out into the sunshine the street was emptier than ever, the big car gone.

It was impossible to settle to household tasks daring tfae rest of that day, and Edna's cheerful chatter teased the nerves. Pat wrote to her father, but each penned word seemed to have no connection with the rest, because all the while her mind reiterated one thought. She had come to a, dead end.

Sleep was elusive that night. Some time after midnight she got out of bed and looked at the black starry sky, seek. ing the assurance that there would be something worth living for in the days to come. She remembered her father saying that even the bitterest losses have their compensations; he had been referring, she knew, to her mother's death and the bond it had forged between the two who were left. But what, she wondered bleakly, could ever compensate for unrequited love? How did one set about the impossible task of forgetting? It was all too painfully fresh. Marion came just after ten next morning, driving the shabby two-seater which belonged to Craigwood but was recognized as Mansell's. Edna saw her from the lounge window. "Here's Mrs. Leigh," she said. "I'll do the dining-room and get on with some jobs in the kitchen. Will you wan^ coffee?" "I'll let yon know." Her pulses knocking,' Pat went to the door and opened ifc Marion came down the path, slender and beautiful m purple- brown tweeds and a beige silk shirt. She smiled. "Good morning, my dear. I haven't been here since last Easter. What a wonderful garden show your father always contrives." The moment of meeting was over without any of the awkwardness Pat had anticipated. She ought to have known that she could rely on Marion to set an ordinary, dignified tone. She saw the other woman seated in an armchair and herself sat in one corner of the chesterfield. Leaning forward over the table which stood between them, she opened the lid of a carved wooden box of dgarettes. Marion took one and struck a match. Pat kept her own cigarette iffl her fingers, unlighted. Constraint and a queer nervousness still kept her taut. She had never before experienced anything like this with Marion. "I got your note," said Marion companionably. "A pity you didn't hang on at Craigwood — I did get back to lunch." Pat needlessly smoothed the cigarette. 'There wasn't much mail — you could have dealt with ifc yourself. I 17(1

guessed you'd only left it for me so that I shouldn't feel superfluous." "That isn't true at all," came the warm retort. "You have all the stuff at your fingertips." ' "An hour's work, in one week." "Does that matter? We'll be tearingly busy when we so back to town. Last year we had just the .two weeks' holiday, but this year we're rewarding ourselves with longer, though I daresay we'll make up for it. There's all the organizing to be done in connection with the new cottage hospital, and you know I've' been asked to 'accept the chairmanship .of the orthopaedic clinic. Next winter you'll have too much work." She bent forward. "Is that why you asked me to come here — to tell me that you're dissatisfied with having so little to do?" "Not really." Pafs innate honesty compelled candor. "I ... I want to resign, Marion. I'm ungrateful and per'haps childish, but I can't go on being your secretary. While you're at Craigwood you can do without one, and when you go back to Cumberland Square I'll gladly help my successor till she's conversant with everything." "I see." Patently, Marion did not quite see. She lay back, thinking. "How long have you been mulling over this?" "Since I came to the cottage nearly three weeks ago." "It must be fairly ingrained. You might have mentioned it then." "I was anxious not to do anything hurtful, and besides;, I wasn't really certain." "But you're quite convinced now that you want nothing more to do with Craigwood?" "I didn't say that." "It's not far wrong, though, is ft?" Marion knocked a cylinder of ash into the beaten metal ashtray. A shadow crossed her face. "We ail seem to be in a fearful muddle, but it's bound to straighten out. Don't do anything rash, Pat. Cutting yourself off from the thing that hurts isn't always the right step. In any case, you and I have no quarrel, and we used to be very happy working together." •-But even Marion did not sound too certain that they would recapture the old serenity. An undertone of weariness flattened her voice. "It might be wisest," she went on, "for

you to get away from Manbury. Couldn't yon Join your father and stay with him till the end of August?" Rather hollowly, Pat said, "That's my intention. On Saturday I'm going to Kendal, and I shall meet him at Coniston on Sunday. At the end of the month I'll go to London to fix up a new job." "Will you promise that you'll contact me before going 'to London?" "I'll write to you." To fill a gap in the conversation which might have become embarrassing, Pat lit the cigarette. As she raised her head the daylight shone sharply across her face, showing it pale and braised-looking under the eyes. The eyes themselves were stricken, the lights gone out of them, and in repose her features were thinner. Inwardly, Marion sighed. Not only was it thoroughly depressing to see Pat incapable of laughter, but she also felt that the blame for it attached to herself. She ought to have foreseen this weeks ago and taken immediate steps to forestall it. The fact was, it had been so pleasant when the four of them and Aunt Alison had been together that a tragic outcome had appeared impossible. Pat was young, she had never had to bear this type of suffering before, and she was taking it hard. "Aunt Alison sent her love," she said. "I wouldn't let her come with me, but she told. me to bring you back fos the week-end." Pat made no other answer than a shake of the head. "There'd be just we three," pursued Marion. "Simon's gone to town." "I know," said Pat evenly. "I saw him yesterday." "You did?" A kindling was audible in Marion's voice. "Did he tell you that the Bristows left by boat for the Riviera the day before yesterday?" "Max and Elise — together?" ""That's all I know — just that — but I suspect Simon had something to do with it. I always said he wouldn't marry her if she were free, and I rather think he took good care to see that she didn't get free. She's spoiled him for other women, of course, but Aunt Alison and I are becoming recondled to that. He's sure to marry, in time."

"Didn't they go to Dolbridge yesterday — Mrs. Cun° liffe and Simon?" "There was an auction of the furniture. Aunt Alison was keen to buy a couple of crystal lamps she had admired in the house as ajgirl. Simon took her there and picked her up later. She came home dead-beat but victorious." An auction! Pat recalled her own hysterical explana" tion of the visit. She asked no more questions. She knew a sensation of relief at hearing that Max and Elise were gone, but fundamentally nothing was altered; Elise was still the nearest Simon could get to his ideal of womanhood. Well, he could have his ideal, carry it around and use it as a yardstick for every woman he met. She'd pity the one he made his wife, could imagine nothing more shattering than loving a man who held the image of someone else in his heart. "Won't you come. Pat?" She shook off the doying reflections. 'To Craigwood? Thanks, but no. Tell Aunt Alison , . ." She stopped abruptly. "Tell her what you think she'd like to hear. I hope she won't be too disappointed in me. And you, Marion ..." "My dear, you and I are closer at the moment than yon realize." She pressed out her cigarette and stood up. "I'm afraid we rather sadden each other, so I'll be off. I'll look for a line from you within the next couple of weeks. Try to have a good time." Pat went with her to the gate and suppressed an absurd dry sob as Marion kissed her. The two-seater moved away, and to escape the feeling of being cold and abandoned, she returned to the house at once by the back way. Edna greeted her with an injured frown. "I had the coffee all ready and you didn't call." "I forgot." "What will Mrs. Leigh think of us?" Edna's identification of herself with the cottage was vaguely comforting. "She'll forgive us," Pat said. "I'll have a cup now. You have one as well, and afterwards we'll finish ,bff the garden. Tomorrow we're going out for

"Are we?" Edna glistened. 'To Exeter?08 "Would you prefer that to the moor?" "Rather! Dartmoor always reminds me of David Cop" ferfietd" Pat smiled. "Yon mean Great Expectations, and you're mixing the counties. Very well, let's make it Exeter. A ladylike binge, Edna." That was how Pat got through the last day or so ai the cottage. She did the things that Edna proposed and preended they were fun. They gazed in shop windows and went to a dnema, found a restaurant which served supper to the accompaniment of a modest orchestra, and ran to a little light wine. Times of stress are always easier to live through if one extends oneself to please another. Pat discovered that pleasing Edna eased her own tension, and she was glad of the opportunity to reward the girl for her undemanding companionship. When they arrived back at the cottage on Friday night, Pat's packing was still to be done. She had dedded to travel in a navy suit, and take only frocks, walking shoes and underwear, but however small the amount to be stowed away, Edna insisted on packing methodically and aeady. "Like as not you'll land in some place where they use old-fashioned flat-irons," she said. "Hang your things as soon as you get there and these few creases will fall out in no time." "I'm not making a trip into the wilderness."' "Sounds awfully wild to me," Edna commented. °Td go nuts in those londy places. Give me Margate or Brighton. You know what, Miss Pat? The sort of holiday you need isn't one of these tramping, dimbing affairs. You can do with building up. A grand rest and lots of sunshine. They say it always rains in that district." "I like the rain." "It gives me the blues, and I hate mud-splashes on my stockings." She shrugged philosophically. "Takes all sorts, doesn't it? You like- rain, and reading dry books and listening to plays and concerts on the radio, and I'm just the opposite. I suppose it's the difference in education, but I'm not really envious of anyone else."

"You certainly shouldn't be," Pat assured her sincerely. "You have a natural gaiety, which is a priceless asset nowadays. You've helped me immensely this week; I don't knov/ what I'd have done without you." Edna's round, lively face shone with pleasure. "I seem to have had a high old time myself," she admitted honestly. "Shall we have a cup of tea?" "A cup of tea" was Edna's invariable method of escape from shy moments. Though it was after eleven she set the kettle to boil and prepared a snack. Much later, when Pat went to bed, she steeled herself against the pain which always came with darkness and lonliness. But the day had been long and tiring, and already it was Saturday morning. She slipped quite quickly over the rim into sleep. Once she was dressed next morning all she had to do was eat some breakfast and catch her train. Edna was to stay on at the cottage and tidy up, after which she would make a parcel of the laundry and carry it along to Mrs. Moss, to whom she would also hand over the key. Pat had not chosen to follow the route taken by her father. She wished to reach Kendal in the least possible time, and to arrive there while it was still light. She had not bothered to book a room at one of the hotels; Mr. Gordon had said you could always get in somewhere and, truth to tell. Pat was in a mood hardly to care if she didn't. But it was safer to get there in daylight, and with this in mind she had talked at some length with a clerk at Exeter station and determined to make use of his advice. At a quarter to seven that morning she was speeding away in the early bus to Exeter, and at half-past the fast train pulled out for the north. The day of travelling was endless and exhausting. As the miles widened between herself and Manbury, Pat felt an ever-deepening ache of loss. The country through which she passed was strange, and as the south-west was left behind so were the blue skies. For Pat, every scrap of light and beauty was concentrated in that small corner of England; she dared not let her thoughts linger upon the 175

possibility that it might be many months before she saw i£ again. There was time for a quick lunch when she changed trains, but she had no appetite. She bought a couple of magazines and got into the corner seat which a porter had obligingly snaffled for her, in a much more crowded train than the first. The second part of the Journey was nightmarish. The carriage was crammed, the atmosphere, grey with smoke, and fitful sunshine beating in upon Pat's head added to her sensation of nauseau. It was no use telling herself now that she should have eaten. Reflecting that her mite of smoke could make little difference, she put on a cigarette and, shrinking further into her corner, she tried to read. It was a half-empty train that steamed into Kendal shortly after seven that evening. Most of those alighting were holiday-makers in old tweeds and raincoats, with studded boots attached to their grips and rucksacks. Pat came stiffly from the station into a soft drizzle. The sky was a dark dove grey, and though it was not particularly cold, the air, to one who had existed for twelve hours on half a dozen of Edna's biscuits, was decidedly bleak. Pat had no idea where she was walking. There was no taxi, no sign of a policeman, but she was unconsciously keeping dose behind a group of two men and two women who were obviously making for a hotel. By the time they slowed down and entered the wide doorway of a timbered building, her case was beginning to drag as if it contained lead. It was a small hotel, comfortingly old and rather shabbily furnished in leather and mahogany, but the entrance lounge was cheerfully lit by many wrought-iron wall-backet lamps. A few people sat about, most of them youngish men who had the dean, rugged look of students on holiday. Pat thankfully dropped her case to the floor. She heard a male member of the four she had followed say breezily, "Well, here we are again. This place hasn't changed since I first came here, thirty years ago. Wait while I find out our room numbers from the old boy." Pat abandoned her case and, without ostentation, walked after the man across the lounge to the small, windowed

sanctum with a counter, which was apparently the reception desk. She lingered a yard or two away, and as soon as her unwitting guide had acepted his keys and moved off, she approached the old man and made known her needs. He regarded her with kind disapproval over the tops of his half-glasses. "You're very foolish to come so far without booking a room first. Don't you realize that this is our busiest month? Supposing I had to tarn you away. What would you do then?" Pat let out a breath of relief. She forbore to mention that this was not the only hotel in Kendal. "So you can give me a room?" "Only through someone else's misfortune. A family ', which were to have arrived this afternoon cancelled their booking because of a car breakdown. They telegraphed that they couldn't get here till Monday. You can have one of their rooms — they'd booked three." "Thanks so much." "Are you alone?" he queried, his glance inquisitive. "Yes, but I'm meeting my father tomorrow at Coniston." This' information seemed to infuse the situation with normality. Pat signed the register, took her key and was given a countrified page-boy to carry her case and lead her up the turkey-red carpeted winding stairs to a dim little bedroom overlooking the wet street. The scene from the window was depressing. The unseen hills were near and doubtless shrouded in the soft predpitation of rain which was common in this district. There were no trees in sight, nor did it look as if it would ever be dry again. Her father was travelling by road from Grasmere to Coniston today. He would be there by now, in the little guest house, and tomorrow she would be with him. Miserably, she wished there were some way of reaching him tonight. She felt so tired and lonely, so utterly dis° pirited. Slackly, she switched on the light and shut out the sombre twilight by tagging at the faded cretonne curtains. She washed, and changed her damp suit for a green dress. She read a notice on the door which said that dinner was served between the hours of six-thirty and eight-thirty. Foe

a few seconds she toyed with a desire to ask for soup and toast to be brought to the room . . . but only for a few seconds. The place would be understaffed, and she was lucky to be here. Better not to try one's good fortune too far. So she ventured down those wide but twisting stairs, and eventually found a fine, beamed dining-room where logs flamed in a hube brick fireplace and the tables were set round it in a semi-drde. Pat was given a table to herself and from where she sat she could see the copper pans and plates on the mantelpiece winking in the glow, arid Spode plates and jugs all round the wall on a high shelf. Warmth was all about her, yet she could not throw off her own coldness. She was chilled to the very centre of her heart. She tried some soup; it was excellent, but perhaps she was too weary to appredate it. The trout had beea superbly baked, but she took no more than a mouthful. Pat was annoyed with herself. It was unfair to let them go on serving delectable food which it was an effort for her even to taste. Maybe one of the men who were eating with such gusto would be deprived, through her, of a second helping. She was on the point of telling the waitress that she would have only coffee, when her attention was drawn by men's voices to the doorway which led to the lounge. The old man of the reception desk was there, looking her way, smiling and gesticulating. Pat stared, her heart made a suffocating leap into her diroat. The dining-room whirled around her. She saw vivid copper pans spinning with the blue and white of the Spode, the white tabledoths mixed up with the beamed ceiling. Then everything righted itself. The other man, m a stormproof but hatless, his face grim and set, was now making his way purposefully towards her. Yes, it was Simono

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN THE suddennes of it was too much. Pat leant her elbow on the table and clasped her brow with cold, shaking fingers. She was conscious that his coat had been thrown over the back of a vacant chair, and that he was sitting opposite, but she was not yet able to raise her head. She thought, "He'll say something hard and sarcastic soon, and then I shall have the courage to confront him." But Simon said nothing, and the waitress was too busy elsewhere to come to the rescue. And one couldn't sit interminably nursing one's forehead, hoping for deliverance. Pat lowered her hand, looked no higher than the straight mouth and said, with a ghastly attempt at flippancy, "You get around, don't you?" "You don't have to be jolly," he said. "Not for me, anyway. We're not pretending any more, Pat." She had to let this pass. "How did you know where to find me?" "Marion told me you'd gone to Kendal, and you happen to be staying at the third hotel I tried." His quietness made her lift her glance for an instant. She saw his face, paler than she had ever seen it before, his eyes very green and intent, and that set, bitter look at his mouth. "Did you come by car?" she asked. "Yes. I got back to Craigwood about midnight last night, after the others were in bed. At breakfast this moming I mentioned that I was going to fetch you to spend the day with us, and it came out that you'd left the cottage for the Lake District." "So you ... followed?" "That's right. Wherever you might have gone, I'd have followed." This time Pat did not drag her glance from the green eyes. She felt the sharp sting of tears, blinked away the

dancing stars aad swallowed on the hysteria which rose in her throat. His hand dosed with bone-cracking ferocity over hers. "For God's sake let's find somewhere we can be alone. There's always a private parlor in these places." "The old man will think you're mad," she said weakly. But the hotel manager seemed to comprehend very well. He showed them to his own sitting-room and assured them they could have a meal there, if they wished. Pat went to the fire. Though the blood drummed in her ears and her pulses hammered, she was still cold. The room was small and cozy, but to her its stillness, its isolation from the rest of the hotel were frightening. She was too exhausted for a scene of this kind. Simon had gone silent again, and now she felt she would scream. The coals murmured together, a sudden gust brought rain pitting against the window. His hand touched her shoulder and she started violently. "Simon, don't! "She twisted and found him near. "We o „. we'll talk some other time." "Oh, no, we won't, Patrida." His tone was crisp. "I'm waiting for you to ask me why I came here." "I know why you're here. To you distances are negligible, and you wouldn't allow them to deny you the pleasures of persecution. You've got too much time on your hands." He regarded her narrowly for a minute. "Will you answer me something truthfully?" "What is it?" "Did Dyson invite you up here?" She answered at once. "No, he didn't." "Did you come to be with him?" "I came to join my father at Coniston. Hugh isn't with ten now. They've parted." She jerked out a hand. "Did you drive all the way from Craigwood to ask me that?" "No," he said deliberately, watching her. "I came after you—for the most part at an illegal speed—to tell you that I'm in love with you." The breath left Pat's body. She went ashen to the lips. Then the stiffening inside her crumpled and the pain was visible in the quivering of her mouth.

"That's a... brutal sort of Joke."' "It's no joke, I can assure you," he said abruptly. Tve lived with it for some time, and, believe me, it's no JokeF She was trembling. "But you can't be in love with me, Simon. You'd have had to show it." "Would I? If that's true I can be pretty certain joi/f« fflot in love with me." He paused to give her time to reply, but as she remained white and still he added, "Am I to take it that you meant what you said the other day—about never wanting to see me again?" "I was upset." "But you ran away." "Simon," her eyes were large and pleading, "can't we ? lease leave this till tomorrow? We're both tired and I.. o m frightened." His whole demeanor changed. He took her hands and held them dose together between his own. His voice was soft. "Don't be scared, my sweet. Let me do the talking for a while. I love you. I think I loved you the first time I saw you, so pretty and angry at the same time. I didn't want to love you—I'll admit that—but it happened, and B had no alternative but to give in to it. I've always known that if I ever fell really hard for a woman I'd have ® stormy time of it because I'd expect a lot too much in the way of understanding. That's how it was, Pat." "Was that really what made you come here?" she whispered. "Sit down," he said, "Just there in the armchair, so that I can look at you." He leaned back upon the edge of the table. "I'll try to be ludd. Last Wednesday, if yoa remember, I was anxious to tell you a few things, but you were equally keen not to hear them. I was going to make you come to Craigwood today and listen, whether you liked it or not. When Marion told me you'd travelled north £ felt furious and bitter, but Ralph was there so I kept quiet." "Ralph?" she said dazedly. His gesture was impatient, dismissive. "Tes, he was there. I went upstairs to throw some things into a grip and Marion followed me. I told her to get out but she wouldn't,

She helped to pack the grip without saying a word, but when it was done, she said, 'Be kind to her, Simon. She's just as hurt as you are and it's been your fault, you know. So handle her gently.' That Was the first gleam of hope, but I'm afraid I told her to mind her own business." There was a catch in her voice which might have had its source either in laughter or in tears. "Oh, Simon—you do treat people badly, those who love you." "She didn't mind. She only laughed and said I was to be sure and send a wire when to expect us. I'd like to have felt as gay as she did." "How... did you feel?" "Hellish," he answered grimly. '^My plans were knocked cockeyed and I couldn't rid myself of the suspicion that you'd come here not so much to get away from me as to be with Dyson." "But how silly. "I've never cared a scrap for Hugh." He was bending over her, his face near hers, his hands on the arms of her chair. "But you have cared for me, haven't you, Pat?" he demanded a little thickly. "Say you love me. I know you're full of doubts but those can be dealt with later. Say you love me." "I love you," she said tremulously. The next second she was tight in his arms, and he was rubbing his cheek against her hair. Pat didn't believe it. This couldn't be Simon's jacket all rough along her chin, there weren't Simon's arms. This wasn't reality at all. It was one of those torturing dreams which presently would splinter and leave her spent. His voice, too, was like the voice in a dream: tender and coming from a long way off. "Pat, what fools people are—and you're more of one than I am. Couldn't you see that I loved you? Didn't you feel it when you were ill with tonsillitis? It seemed to me then as if you must, because I was so worried that I was sure that what I was feeling must get through to you, though I tried very hard to be brotherly." He drew back his head. "Now that I'm holding you at last, I don't think I can ever let you go." He kissed her, gently, and then with an access of passion. And it was then that Pat believed. For no one but Simon could have held and kissed her like that, melting

her heart, filling her with a delirious yearning to be all the things he could ever desire in a woman. No one but Simon. Presently his arms relaxed slightly. "Tve heard it stated,'" he said, "that it's the first pang of Jealousy which 'tells a man he's in love. I had that within ten minutes of meeting you—so I must have fallen at first sight." "You weren't Jealous of Roy?" "I didn't know him, but I hated the thought of your making yourself lovely for another man. If I could have prevented you from spending the week-end in Kent, I would have." "But, Simon"—she released herself and looked up af him perplexedly, adoringly—"why didn't things move normally? We did have Craigwood in common. You do love Qaigwood, don't you?" "Not so much as you do." He smiled at her bewilderment. "I have a bond with the place, of course—even when I was thousands of miles away and not too sure I'd ever get back, is was home. But I've been a bit jealous of Craigwood, too. I didn't object to its being important to Marion, but I won't share you, or any part of you, with anything or anyone. In a way I wish we could let Marion have Craigwood and start together in a new house. How would that please you?" "I'd live anywhere," she said, "with you." "I don't believe you'd dare say anything different, but it's a relief to hear it, because I can't get out of going abroad during the last week in September. That was the object of my visit to town on Thursday—to try and get out of it—but it seems I'm committed to the first part of my job in the West Indies. They'll find someone else to carry on later, but it will mean six or eight months' travelling. Can you face it?" Her eyes shone. "Will you really take me?" "I won't go without you—that's another thing T-ve hiown for a long time. We'll make it our honeymoon and get back to Craigwood next spring. Darling, you color beautifully," he said teasingly. "Was it the mention of a honeymoon? Don't be apprehensive, my sweet. I'll never hurt or frighten you again."

The flush receded as swiftly as it had risen. Pat did not smile. She tamed away, saw the snug but unfamiliar room and felt uneasiness and fear clogging her breathing. "Simon, I v/ish we could go out. There's such a lot I want to knov/ and this room is strange." "And the darkness is friendly," he said. "I know how you feel. But you'd get horribly wet." He came behind her and murmured, "What is it... Elise?" She nodded dumbly. "You know me ... and yet you're still worried about mat?" "I didn't know you six years ago." He took her shoulders and tamed her. "It's a longish story. Come here, and try not to interrupt." He had her comfortably in the circle of his arm before continuing, "When I first met Elise she was twenty and in rather a bad way. She'd lost her parents and hadn't a penny, and she was totally unfitted for any kind of work. She was convent-bred and was living with an aunt and uncle at the coast, but she was frightfully unhappy and terrified of her . relatives. I know now that her terror and misery were Symptoms of a mental state, but I wasn't aware of it then. She used to visit some people who lived near Dolbridge, and that's how I came to be acquainted with her. She was thin and pretty and terribly nervy, but with me she used to relax." His hand closed more firmly over her shoulder. "Don't tighten up. Pat, there's a dear. I've never told this to a soul before and I'm not enjoying the telling of it now, but you've a right to hear it. You do want the whole truth, don't you?" "Please go on," came her muffled plea. "Good girl. Well . . . Elise was often a guest at Craigwood, and it wasn't long before rumors were going the rounds. I didn't take them seriously because I hadn't any intention of marrying Elise. ..." "Is that true?" "Would I lie to you? Of course it's true." "But you loved her." . "No, I'd grown fond of her, which is somewhat different. I pitied her because she couldn't stand up to life and I did try to save her a few knocks. Unfortunately, Marion

and my brother misunderstood the business, too, and inevitably Elise came to regard herself almost as one of the family. It became more and more obvious that she was depending on me, and I didn't like the situation. If Max had told me he was in love with her everything might have turned out differently, but he's not the talkative sort and he probably thought the same as the rest—that I was going to marry her." He paused. "That's how things were when I was asked to take over in the Far East. I'd been resting a few months and hoped my next job would be nearer home, but I dedded to take it on. Elise was dis° tressed." "Was she in love with you?'9 "She isn't capable of love as you and I know it, but she craved to belong to a home like Craigwood and to have money and good clothes. You couldn't blame her— she'd had a tough time and she isn't built to stand much. We had a bit of a scene over it, and after that I never saw her again till the night she came to dinner, a few weeks ago." "But everyone thought you'd proposed to her and beeo turned down." "For your sake I'm sorry about that. Elise was nearly hysterical, because it would look as if I'd left her flat, so I gave her permission to reverse the facts. It didn't matter to me then, and I didn't for a moment guess that all this would be resurrected six years after. You musn't place too much importance on that aspect of it, Pat. It served Elise's Surpose and got her through a sticky patch with all flags ying—it isn't every woman who has the chance of refusing a Leigh!" He gave a short laugh. "For me, whenever I looked back on it, it was a thoroughly unpleasant experience, but I blame myself for not seeing more dearly that she was just a purring kitten longing for a silk cushion and a bowl of cream." Pat laughed shakily. "I knew that the very first night £ saw her." "Women are seldom deceived about one another, are they? You do see it all now, don't you?" "There was nothing more than that?"'

"Nothing. When I heard she'd married Max Bristow I had only sympathy for him. I knew he wouldn't have the smallest notion of how to handle her." Pat stirred but he would not let her go. "Then eventually I heard that Richard died, and I found I hadn't any wish to come home. I hadn't the least hankering to own Craigwood because I was pretty certain I'd never marry." His lips pressed net forehead. "Thus is man confounded!" "If only I'd understood all this from the beginning!" "How could you? We had to be in love first." After a moment he added, "I was given six months' leave and more or less ordered back to England to give a first-hand report. I met you, and found myself thinking about you at all times of the day—and night, I must confess—and growing unsettled. Remember when I kissed you at the flat?" "It was more like a blow than a kiss." His tones held a smile. "I was angry and unreasonable because you believed all you'd heard and concluded I was remaining away from Craigwood for sentimental reasons. There were other things, too; your friendship with young Brandon—and even the fact that you'd agreed to go to a concert with Ralph. I told myself that you were no different from other women, that if I hurt you, you'd go tearful and cling." He sighed. "The day came when I'd have given anything if you had. You were horribly independent, Pat." She moved slightly away from him and this time he let his arms drop and stared down at her. "I wonder if you can possibly imagine how a man feels when me woman he's falling in love with against his will is sought out by other men? It's a condition of perpetual dull rage." "It sounds dreadful." "So it is. A boxful of roses from a chap in London who calls you 'darling'. An artist who sketches you against a background of sky and seagulls, and has the temerity to propose to you into the bargain. I knew neither of them meant anything to you, but the mere knowledge of their existence tormented me. I hated them. I didn't like you much, either, the day I found you darning that fellow's socks!" V.

"Poor Hugh. I hope he'll soon find a wife.'8 She had scarcely finished the sentence when there came a knock at the door. A rosy-faced waitress entered, carrying a tray. "I was told to bring this," she said shyly. "The diningroom is dosed so there's only savouries and coffee. The manager says will you be sure to sign the register, sir, but (here's no hurry." Simon dealt with her diarmingly, and dosed the door after her departure. He came back to the table and lifted the cover from a dish of hot sausage rolls and toast fingers topped with mounds of egg and fish. "I believe I'm hungry/'he said, "but we'll have some coffee first. Come on, curl into a chair and try to look as though this were the happiest day of your life." He gave her the coffee and made her try some toast. Pat sensed that he was being careful and she thought she knew why; he considered that she had had enough of Elise for the time being. But though she found difficulty in talking, she did feel her courage oozing back. Simon had never really loved Elise, but he did love Pat. Yes, throbbed her pulses, he loved her. What else could have the least significance beside that? She looked at him, sitting in a chair dose to hers, saw the strong hand holding the cup, the lean features and leaping eyes smiling at her as a man smiles at only one woman. A delicious warmth swathed her heart, her lips parted in wordless surrender. As if she had spoken, he nodded. "I've been waiting for that. Not scared any more, are you?" "No, Simon. Tell me the rest so that we can forget it." Til put it briefly." He reached for her cup and set it on the table with his own, and as he explained he got out dgarettes and bis lighter. "You were the sole reason I invited Elise to dinner at Craigwood. I was anxious you should realize how very unimportant she was to you and me. When Max came back from Ireland I ran into him in the village, and he invited me over to inspect some horses he'd bought." He lit both dgarettes and gave her one. "As I said before. Max was always one to keep fais 1ST

own counsel, but that day, maybe because I was acquainted with both him and Elise before their marriage, he opened up. He said they'd spent four winters apart and he couldn't stand it if she left him again. He reminded me that I used to be able to influence Elise, and he asked me to persuade her that her place was at Dolbridge. I was appalled." "What a state the poor man must have been in," said Pat with compassion. "I talked with him once; he's very decent," "So decent that I agreed to help in any way I could. I went there a few times and never lost an opportunity of showing Elise bow lucky she was to have a home like Dolbride and a husband like Max. She never contradicted me and I think it would have worked if Max hadn't grown over-confident. Quite what happened between them I rood care never to find out, but it must have been something of an explosion. She telephoned Craigwood in tears one day. . . ." "The day you went to the Sheridan play at the school?" "Your memory is as sharp in some directions as mine, Patricia. If you hadn't been ill I'd have explained to you about it that evening after I got back. Well, she begged , me to go to Dolbridge, and when I got there she was in a state of collapse and Max couldn't do a thing with her. We called a doctor, and that was the beginning of the end. He discovered that her heart isn't good—she has to live a completely quiet life in a warm country." For several minutes Pat was wordless. Then she said, "I : feel so sorry for Max. Having to sell up Dolbridge must ; have been a wrenching experience." ^ "He was like a man drugged, but he didn't hesitate. ,. There was one point on which he and I didn't see eye to '* eye. He wanted Elise to be kept ignorant of nearly every- '] thing, even of her own weakness. I tried to make him see • that they'd actually be happier together if she appreciated :'• just how much she owed him, but he wouldn't have it. I ^j gave him my word I'd tell her nothing, but I did use .^ roundabout methods to ensure that she got to know. It.^j was an exhausting and long-drawn-out procedure," ^

"You're such a darling," Pat said softly, "and I thought you were inhuman. One day I saw you and Elise outside the solicitor's office, and I had a ghastly presentiment that she was getting a divorce." "Were we in the car? We were probably waiting for Max. She didn't want a divorce. I rather mink that the ways things have tamed out is best for them. Max can buy a place and breed horses, and Elise will be careful not to exert or excite herself; in spite of everything she dings to life. Max will fuss over her and in time her nerves will settle. On the whole he'll be contented." "It's sad, all the same. I do wish I'd known all this before, Simon," "So do I," he said, "but somehow I couldn't get neag you, and Marion and Aunt Alison were unwittingly obstructive. I couldn't talk to them about the Bristows' business — not before they'd left for France, anyway — and there was so much more I had to say to you before telling yoa about it." "Was that what you intended to say when you ordered me to get into the car last week?" He nodded, and a hint of exasperation tinged his tone®, "You're a difficult wench. Now you can do a bit of explaining. Why .did you get so nasty the evening I telephoned yoa at Craigwood from Exeter?" "Were you in Exeter? Ralph was sure you'd gone to Dolbridge, and I was so sick of the name. You see, I always thought it was Elise you went to see, not Max." "You're crazy; sweet and crazy. So you decided 3 was evading the truth. It's a fact that I wasn't too keen on your finding out how often I was visiting Dolbrodge, and I did go there earlier that day. Then I drove on to Exeter to do something for Max. Pat" — he stopped for long enough to make her realize that (he question was going to be of some importance — "when did you acknowledge to yourself that you were in love with me?" Her flush this time was even prettier, for she smiled with it. "I'm not sure. I think it was the day you met me in the wood when it rained, but I wasn't particularly uplifted about it because that very morning I'd typed the invitation to Elise. Afterwards, I was horribly afraid you'd guess."

"You took good care I shouldn't, though I knew you were as aware of me as I was of you. You used to feel me come into the room — I've seen your back go rigid — but enmity rather than love seemed to be the cause of it." He got up and came to sit on the arm of her chair. His fingers nafflled the tawny curls. "Happy now?" "So happy 2 could weep, but I won't What are Marion and Aunt Alison going to say?" He made a sound of amusement. "They've probably said it. already, having got what they wanted. I v/ouldn't mind betting they've already drawn up a list of wedding guests. "Oh, dear! Simon, what about my father?" "What about him? Are you afraid he'll object to me as a, son-in-law?" She laughed shakily at the complete absurdity of such a suggestion. "I mean, how can we tell him?" "We'll drive over to see him early tomorrow mornin If we can manage to get accommodation we might stay there overnight and travel back to Craigwood on Monday. Would you like that?" "It would be lovely." They were silent, contemplating the 'dying coals. The rain was barely audible but an occasional spot hissed into the fire and sent up a tiny cloud of ash. To Pat, the room had become familiar now, and unforgettable. In after years one of them might say, "Remember the inn parlor at Kendal?" and both would be back there, among the polished copper and brass, the faded cretonne, watching that ebbing fire. ,. Simon said, "I must tel! you about Ralph. Did you hear. Aat he and Marion had had a disagreement?" "No, but I suspected something of the sort." She raised her head, suddenly eager. "Are he and Marion going to be married?" "Steady, my pet. You've got marriage on the brain — but I daresay it will eventually come to that. Ralph, as you know, went back to town, but before he left I persuaded him to put up at the flat. He'd had a week alone when I went there last Thursday, and by that time he was willing to listen to reason- He isn't badly off; he was never spend-

thrift and he has a pension; he also seems to have an ambi« tion to start a boat-building venture." Pat smiled but mad® no comment. Simon went on." He discovered during a conversation with Marion that she's fairly well provided for, and apparently it was a shock. His modesty is so phenomenal that he couldn't imagine a good-looking woman with a large private income having the least interest in Ralph Sedgwick, so — to put it in his own words — he got out before things had gone too far." "They'd make a marvellous couple!" "Maybe, but it's safer to keep quiet about it and let the matter run its own course. I got him to return to Craigwood by promising to let it appear that his business in the City had fallen through and he had nothing else to do. Ralph's a proud man." "But I do hope they'll get married before . .. before we leave. They could stay on at Craigwood till they have a > house ready at Marlsea. Marion's already given up most of her work in London and she only has to make it final. She can take part in local charities. . . ." "That's enough," said Simon. "Let them do their own anravelling. I've had more than enough of other people's! affairs. You'll have enough on your hands, too, my child. You're marrying me a month from now." He tweaked her ear. "And in my opinion a month is far too long to wait." He toudied his mouth to her hair, drew her up with him and held her dose. "We belong together," he said below his breath. Then on an almost savage note, "Darling . . . this is for ever." "'For ever, Simon," she whispered. He kissed her, and the last shadow of pain was gone, because she was vibrant and eternal with love.