Under Joint Management

UNDER JOINT MANAGEMENT Mary Burchell

"It never hurts to keep a man dangling, on the assumption that you are interested in another man," Anne's employer told her with goodnatured cynicism. "But it's taking a great risk to keep him waiting on interests of a family," In Anne's case, however, it was a risk that just had to be taken. to be sure, Gregory was sympathetic and understanding. But how far will any man be sympathetic and understanding if a girl keeps on putting her family first.

CHAPTER ONE UNTIL the day her brother Edward most inconsiderately had a heart attack and died, Mrs. Brendall had always considered herself a fortunate woman. Disaster had certainly threatened at one point, for Mrs. Brendall had become a widow at a comparatively early age. But her brother - a silent, even an unsociable, man - had undoubtedly been generous in his interpretation of family duty. For he had not hesitated to open his large, rambling home to his sister and her children. "Which is more than most bachelor uncles would have done," Anne, the second daughter, had declared warmly once, when it had seemed to her that her mother took a great deal for granted. Of the four Brendall children, Anne was probably the most actively aware of the debt they all owed Uncle Ted. And, although it had always been impossible to achieve any very close personal relationship with him, she was genuinely fond of her uncle and was shocked and grieved by his death. Sara, the eldest of the family, saw Uncle Ted's death almost entirely in terms of how it might affect the family, and more particularly herself. She was a beautiful, bright fair- weather creature, with redgold hair, dark blue eyes, and the kind of figure that could make a sale bargain look like an advance model. She was enchanting when everything went well but not, Anne sometimes thought with reluctant perspicacity, anyone on whom you would instinctively rely in adversity. At twenty-three, Sara was the entirely successful secretary of Murray Farraday, the most important man in town - a post which she had occupied for about a year at the time of Uncle Ted's death. She was inclined to entertain (and even sometimes scandalize) her family by

her accounts of the summary way in which she "dealt with" her difficult employer. As the head of the big iron and steel works which provided employment for a third of the town, he was inclined, according to Sara, to think he owned the universe. "I jolt his complacency occasionally," she explained airily. "But, as I'm such a good secretary, he puts up with it. It's all a question of timing, really. Whenever I've proved myself particularly indispensable, I take the opportunity of letting him know he's not quite the man he thought he was." Anne used to feel faintly - if unnecessarily - sorry for the great Murray Farraday when Sara talked like this. But then she used to remember consolingly that, with most people, there is usually a subtle difference between the repartee they wish or think they made and the mild retort which they actually achieved. Anne was only two years younger than Sara in years but - to Sara's thinking at least - there was a gap of something like ten years between them in worldly knowledge and their general approach to life. Anne was what Mrs. Brendall called her "home girl." She was particularly fond of calling Anne this when she wished to delegate some tiresome domestic duty. But, in point of fact, Anne was happier in her home than anywhere else. Though much more eagerly fond of her fellow creatures than Sara would ever be, she was shy and often found it hard to convey the friendliness she felt. It had, therefore, been no hardship to her, but a genuine delight, when, on her eighteenth birthday, Mrs. Brendall abdicated firmly from her position as manager of her brother's household, and proceeded to enjoy a mild degree of bad health and to leave the running of the home to her second child.

Richard, the third member of the family, was a good-looking, rather silent boy, and, at the time when his uncle's death changed the family fortunes, he was nearing seventeen. He had an almost uncanny capacity for passing exams, and Mrs. Brendall at least was firmly convinced that he was a genius and would make a great name for himself. The family was completed by the twelve-year-old Pansy, who considered her name to be a Great Affliction and frequently said so, with the powers of reiteration peculiar to her age. "Whatever made you think of Pansy?" she would wail to her mother. "Of all the sissy names to give a poor, helpless baby!" "It was your big brown eyes, dear," Mrs. Brendall explained sentimentally. "The others all had blue eyes. And then you came along, and really your eyes were just like those velvety brown pansies that your father used to grow in the back garden at home." This, then, was the Brendall family at the time when Uncle Ted died suddenly and with characteristically little fuss in his office one bright June afternoon. Most people in Midchester had always regarded Edward Gaunt as a reasonably wealthy man. Certainly his own family had never entertained any doubts about the solidity of his financial position. And it was, therefore, with decorous interest, rather than anxious anticipation, that Mrs. Brendall prepared to go and see Uncle Ted's solicitor, once the funeral was over and it was necessary to find in what new channels life would have to flow. "It's a sad business, of course," she said, standing before Anne and expertly smoothing on her gloves, while her daughter wondered passingly why it is that people always look their very best or their very worst in black. "But" - she became more briskly practical - "as

the executrix of poor dear Ted's will, I must naturally go and see Mr. Puller as soon as possible." "Naturally," Anne agreed. And Mrs. Brendall departed elegantly for Mr. Puller's office. When she had gone, Anne went round the large, comfortable house, seeing that everything was in order. It was another of those bright June afternoons, and, if the sunshine showed up the faint shabbiness of Barrowmead, it also emphasized the mellow, comfortable, "livedin" atmosphere of the square, double-fronted house. Satisfied that nothing else required her immediate attention, Anne took her mending basket into the sunny sitting-room, and sat down to give her attention to the extraordinary state of disrepair into which Pansy's clothes seemed automatically to fall. Life would be strange without Uncle Ted on whom to rely for all major decisions, she thought rather seriously. He had never made much stir in the family circle, but he had always been there. And, when it came to the point, it was he who had been regarded as the head of the family. Now, she supposed, that position would devolve on Mother. And it was hard to imagine Mother making decisions. Then the sound of the gate, followed by Sara's unmistakable quick, light step in the hall, distracted her attention from thoughts of the future. Anne glanced at the clock in surprise. It was at least an hour and a half before Sara might be expected home, in the ordinary way. But before she could speculate on the reason for this, her sister came into the room. "Hello. Where's Mother?"

Sara tossed off a cherry-coloured blazer, to reveal a short- sleeved grey dress which might have been specially modelled for her, but had, in fact, been made by herself. "She's gone downtown to see Mr. Puller. About the will, you know. She's executrix, and of course she has to find out how things stand," Anne explained. "Of course." Sara flung herself down in the opposite chair and ran her fingers through her hair. Then, after a moment, she said with uncharacteristic concern, "Well, I hope they stand pretty well, as far as we're concerned." Anne said nothing. "I suppose it will be all right." Sara frowned. "I mean - poor old Uncle Ted must have been really quite well off, I should think, wouldn't you?" "I suppose so." Anne didn't look up. She wished Sara - and her mother too - would not keep on making it sound as though Uncle Ted's sole justification for existence had been his money, and the chief regret for his death, doubt about the amount he might have left. "One must be realistic about these things," Sara remarked, interpreting her sister's lack of response with accuracy. "But one needn't sound callous." "Don't be silly." Sara's little laugh had a faintly irritated note in it. "I don't mean any disrespect to Uncle. But the future belongs to the living, Anne. And the future could look pretty dim if Uncle Ted hadn't left us reasonably well off."

Anne put down her mending and considered that. "It would mean a lot of retrenching and rearrangement," she conceded. "It would mean life being hardly worth living," retorted Sara. "There's Richard's education to complete, and Pansy's only just begun, judging from her last report" Anne laughed deprecatingly, because no one could pretend that Pansy was a genius, only she was rather a pet. "Of course, if we were really in a hole, Mother could run the house and I could get a job," she suggested. "But - yes, I suppose you're right, Sara. At the moment, you are the only member of the family earning a good salary." Sara got up from her chair and, crossing the room, stood looking out of the window, with her back to Anne. "I'm not earning a good salary at the moment," she said at last, in an elaborately casual tone. "I lost my job this afternoon, as a matter of fact." "Sara!-You didn't." "There's no need to sound so tragic about it." Sara shrugged impatiently. "There are plenty of good jobs going for anyone as well qualified as I am." "I know. But what happened?" Anne tried not to sound as troubled as she felt. "Oh, a row, of course." Sara spoke airily, but when she turned round, Anne saw that she was biting her lip and frowning slightly again.

"With Mr. Farraday?" "Naturally." "Oh, darling, couldn't you have kept your temper? Did you have to go as far as giving notice ?" "I didn't give notice." Anne digested this, and then gasped. "You don't mean—?" She looked indescribably shocked. "Oh, Anne, don't be so melodramatic! Yes, I was sacked. You needn't be afraid of the word. It's happened to lots of perfectly efficient people when someone's got a down on them. I was sacked," Sara repeated, as though the flippant insistence on the word made it unimportant. , "Sara-why?" Sara shrugged. "I suppose he couldn't stand the sight of me any longer. Just as I couldn't stand him. If he hadn't spoken first, I should have," declared Sara, with what Anne guessed to be inaccurate bravado. "It's all right, Anne, I'll get another job, just as good - or better." Anne didn't reply. Sara must know as well as she did that to be sacked by Murray Farraday would be no recommendation for obtaining other employment. But there was no point in underlining the unhappy situation at the moment. Neither spoke for a few minutes. Then the uneasy silence was broken by the sound of the front door opening and shutting once more, and a

loud bump in the passage indicated that Pansy had arrived home and slung her satchel on to the hall table. "Hello, everyone. What brought you home so early, Sara? Have you got the sack?" The uncanny accuracy of this unsubtle joke momentarily deprived the other two of speech. At first Pansy found nothing odd in the silence. Then its peculiar quality seemed to impinge on her consciousness, and she straightened up, with sudden and ghoulish interest gleaming from behind her spectacles. "What's happened?" she inquired, with all the directness of one to whom tact and judicious timing were unknown factors. "You guessed right, that's all," Sara told her shortly. "I left my job with Murray Farraday this afternoon." "Left it? D'you mean you walked out, or were pushed?" inquired Pansy with unwelcome exactness. Anne frowned at her slightly and shook her head, to indicate that the subject had been sufficiently explored. "I had a row with Mr. Farraday, and I'm not going back," Sara said coldly. "That's all you need to know." "But it's most important," began Pansy. But Anne, knowing how little open to suggestion Pansy could be, cut in firmly with: "Let's have tea before we talk any more. Come and help me get it, Pansy."

"Does Mother know?" asked Pansy. "No, not yet. And leave Sara to tell Mother herself," Anne warned quickly. "Of course," Pansy agreed virtuously. Then, as it seemed that there was no more sensation to be squeezed from the interesting event, she suddenly abandoned the subject with a cheerful— "Gosh! I'm hungry. Aren't you?" Anne was not. The disquieting development in Sara's affairs had rather reduced her appetite. But she smiled sympathetically, and hurried on the tea preparations. "Aren't we waiting for Mother?" Sara inquired, as Anne came in with the teapot. "No. She said she might be rather late," Anne explained. "I expect there'll be quite a lot for her and Mr. Puller to talk about." "Whether we're poor or not now, you mean?" asked Pansy brightly. Sara frowned, but Anne smiled reassuringly and said: "I don't think that enters into it much, Pansy." And then there was the sound of the gate again, and Sara and Pansy said in unison, "There's Mother." Sara looked very faintly worried. No one ever liked having to break bad news to Mother. She always took it very dramatically, for one thing. But Sara was not one to hesitate about taking her fences, and she set her mouth as her mother came in, and prepared to become the centre of a thoroughly tiresome scene.

However, it became immediately apparent to everyone that it was Mother, and Mother only, who was going to be the centre of any scene. She made an excellent entry, with an expression of tragic resignation on her face, and a handkerchief clutched nervously, but rather tellingly, in her hand. Anne jumped up and said: "Mother dear! What has happened?" Mrs. Brendall gestured expressively and sank into the most comfortable chair in the room. "My dears, we are ruined," she explained, in accents of calm despair which any tragedienne might have envied. "Your Uncle Edward has left us practically penniless. His salary, of course, died with him. And Mr. Puller tells me that nearly all his capital went in - in reckless speculation in the last year of his life. I can hardly believe it, even now. Ted was not a reckless character." They all mentally recalled the grave, silent Uncle Ted they had known, and no one felt that he had been a reckless character. "I suppose he - he expected to increase his capital very much," Anne suggested at last. "And that means he must have been worrying a lot about us and the future, because there was no need for him to do it for himself. There would always have been his salary and his pension until he died. Oh, I wish I'd known! We needn't have let him carry such a burden of worry and responsibility. I could have got a job for one thing and—" "Someone had to run the house, my dear," her mother pointed out kindly. "There's no need to blame yourself. What your poor uncle

should have remembered was that it's better to be sure of a little than to risk everything for an improbable fortune." "I'm sure he did what he thought was best for us," Anne said quickly. "How bad is it?" inquired Sara, who knew her mother too well to take such expressions as "ruined" and "practically penniless" at their exact face value. "Does the house belong to us?" "Oh, yes. At least we have a roof over our heads," Mrs. Brendall admitted. "Then it's not so bad," Anne said quickly, for she had had a momentary and terrible fear that they might all have to leave Barrowmead. "My dear!" Her mother checked any undue and unbecoming optimism. "Don't deceive yourself. It's just about as bad as it can be. There are not more than a few hundreds left in the bank, that's all. Literally all we possess." There was a horrid little silence, during which it was almost possible to hear Pansy's mouth open and shut. At the same time Sara and Anne exchanged a look which meant, "Better not say anything just now. It's the wrong moment." Fortunately, Richard's return from school created a slight diversion just then, and Pansy was able to rush into speech with the interesting announcement— "There's no money and we're practically ruined, but fortunately the house belongs to us, so we shan't be turned out into the street." "That's a good thing," commented Richard, who was a boy of few words. "Any tea about?"

"I'll get a fresh pot." Anne moved towards the door. "I expect you could do with some. Mother." As Anne stood by the stove, waiting for the kettle to boil, she tried to review the new situation with calm common sense. Sara must find a new post as soon as ever possible - and it would be as well not to tell Mother the real situation until the change had been made - and then she herself would have to find a job and contribute to the family budget. "There's no hardship in that," Anne told herself severely. "You've been lucky to be able to do the thing you really like most all these years." Which, of course, was true. Back in the dining-room once more, Anne found a family discussion in full swing. Suddenly, in the middle of the discussion, Sara jumped up and exclaimed: "I'd forgotten! I promised to go out with Gregory Payne this evening. And I said you'd come and make up a foursome, Anne, because he's got a cousin or someone on leave from India or somewhere and he needs to be amused." "Oh, Sara!" Anne looked rather taken aback. "Couldn't you get hold of someone else? I—" "Not at such short notice," Sara cut in briskly. "That's why I promised I'd bring you. I knew you hadn't anything on this evening. Come on, Anne, don't be obstructive. We'll have a perfectly good evening. They'll probably take us to the Water Mill for dinner and some dancing."

"Shall I have to handle the unknown cousin?" Anne asked rather timidly. "I'm not - I'm not very good with people I don't know." "Then you'd better leave him to me, and take on Gregory for the evening," Sara told her with an impatient little laugh. "I suppose you feel equal to handling Gregory, don't you?" Anne did not answer this exactly, but finally said that she would come. And, as she went upstairs to get ready, she admitted to her self that, if she could not claim that she felt equal to "handling" Gregory Payne, at least she was excited and stimulated by the thought of an evening in his company. Gregory Payne was the son of the town's most popular doctor, and was already beginning to make some success for himself as a chartered accountant. The Brendalls had known him by sight most of their lives, though it was not until the last year that Sara - always the one of the family to make interesting social contacts - had met him at a party and brought him home once or twice. Anne remembered him very well as a good-looking schoolboy, when she herself was at the age to stand at the side of the cricket pitch and gasp with not very well-informed wonder at his prowess. Later he had gone away to college, and when he came home in the vacations, a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old Anne had regarded him with shy admiration when she passed him in the High Street, or saw him rattle past the gate on the insecure-looking motor-bike which had been the joy of his heart in those days. Later still, of course, she had outgrown those somewhat naive phases of interest in Gregory Payne. But he still remained for her the most interesting person in Midchester, outside her own family.

It was therefore with mixed feelings of pleasure and slightly nervous anticipation that she changed now into a dress which even the critical Sara had once pronounced to be "quite the most becoming thing you ever had, Anne." Unlike her elder sister, Anne was neither brilliant nor striking, and was certainly not the type to make heads turn when she entered a room. But she had - so Mrs. Brendall had said, in one of her moments of rare discernment - a quality of inner radiance which was curiously attractive. The characteristic red-gold hair and deep blue eyes of Mrs. Brendall and her son and eldest daughter had, in Anne, been toned down to pale gold hair which grew in thick, soft waves, and wide, slate-blue eyes with unexpectedly dark lashes. She was not so tall as Sara, but she moved with the same quick grace, and, though she could not make an indifferent dress look distinguished - as her sister could - she was quite capable of showing off to advantage any dress as becoming as the one she was wearing that evening; it was of a peculiar shade of deep blue-grey chiffon which emphasized the colour of her eyes. As she pushed back the heavy wave of golden hair that was inclined to fall forward over her forehead, and surveyed herself anxiously in the mirror, Anne thought that even Gregory Payne might be quite well pleased to be seen taking her out. Not that Gregory was conceited or inclined to think himself entitled to be over-critical of his girl-friends. But - well, she would just like to think she looked her best when she went out with him. "Are you ready, Anne?" Sara called from below. "They're here!" And, catching up her short cream jacket, Anne ran down the stairs to join her sister.

Robert Payne, the unknown cousin, proved to be a personable young man, with such an air of easy friendliness that Anne thought she need not have been alarmed at the prospect of having to entertain him. But, all the same, she was glad that it was Gregory who was to be her companion for the evening and that, when they entered the car, Sara and Robert Payne automatically took the back seat, while she was evidently expected to sit in front with Gregory. As she took her seat, Anne cast a quick glance at her companion. She had been right in the old days when she thought Gregory a goodlooking boy, and now he was a good-looking man. Tall, dark and well-made, with humorous grey eyes and a mouth which smiled easily, either with quick amusement or sheer good nature. He was smiling now, she noticed, as though well pleased with the present arrangements. Which was nice of him, Anne thought, because most young men in Midchester would rather have sat beside lovely Sara Brendall than the quiet younger sister whom nobody seemed to know very well. As Sara had predicted, the men had decided on the Water Mill, a riverside restaurant and dance club, built near a picturesque old mill that had been for many years a local landmark. In addition to the restaurant, beautiful grounds had been laid out, with the old mill as the central attraction, and an excellent swimming-pool had been added. Many of the young Midchester people with a little money to spend made a point of driving out to the Water Mill when they wanted a rather special evening's entertainment, and on a fine summer evening, such as this, the place was apt to be crowded. Consequently, early though they were, they found all the tables occupied, and the head waiter could not promise anything under half an hour or forty minutes.

"Shall we drive on farther?" Gregory consulted the others. "Or idle away half an hour in the grounds, tearing local reputations to pieces?" "Why don't we swim?" Sara asked. An excellent and graceful swimmer, she knew that even in a hired swim-suit she could not fail to look her best. Robert thought this an excellent idea, but Anne and Gregory decided for the less energetic course of sitting under the trees and talking. So, when the other two had gone off, Gregory found a pleasantly secluded seat, where the murmur of the water over the mill weir made a charming accompaniment to their conversation. For a while they were satisfied to exchange casual remarks and enjoy each other's company with an ease which surprised and gratified the shy Anne. Then he said: "Don't think me interfering, but is something worrying you, Anne?" She glanced at him quickly and a little diffidently. "Do you mean - because I'm not being very lively?" He smiled in a way she particularly liked. "No, I didn't mean that at all. I just thought—" He paused and gave Anne a very direct and open smile. "I shouldn't like to think of your being dreadfully worried, and having no one to talk to about it, Anne." She was so surprised and moved that for a moment she could find nothing to say. That Gregory, of all people, should be concerned about her personally! Not just as Sara's sister. Not just as one of the Brendalls. But because she was Anne, and he didn't like to think of her worrying.

"How very kind of you, Gregory," she said slowly at last. "To be quite truthful, we're just learned that we're going to be rather hard up in future. I don't think it's going to involve anything so awful as our leaving Barrowmead. And - and all families have to make big alterations at one time or another, don't they?" "I dare say you're right. You don't mind my asking, do you?" "Of course not! I think it was sweet of you," Anne said earnestly. At her choice of word, he laughed and actually flushed a little which surprised Anne, because he was usually a very self-possessed sort of person. "That's all right then. I just thought I'd like you to know I'm around if - if any sort of support is needed," he explained rather vaguely. And Anne couldn't think of anything to say except "Thank you." But she hoped he knew that she meant, "Thank you, Gregory dear - this is one Of the nicest things that's ever happened to me." Perhaps he did know, because the short silence between them was very companionable and friendly. And then he broke it; with the interested comment "There goes Sara's tyrant, surely." "Where?" Anne leant forward with eager attention for, although she had heard so much about the famous Murray Farraday, she had never seen him at close quarters - only an occasional glimpse of him driving rapidly through the town in his car. "The chap strolling down towards the river wall alone," Gregory explained. "I suppose he's waiting for someone."

Anne gazed with rather painful interest after the man who had dismissed Sara that afternoon. From the back, she could only see that he was tall and broad-shouldered, and that he carried himself a little as though the Water Mill belonged to him, which it did not. Well - no doubt he was difficult to work for. But how Sara must be wishing now that she still had the chance to do so! Anne knew her sister quite well enough to be aware that, under the bright gaiety of her "party" manner, Sara was worried and anxious. She might talk airily of other employment, but Murray Farraday was well known as the best paying employer in town. A terror to work for, but a good payer - that was what they said of him in Midchester. And how badly the Brendalls needed a "good payer" at the moment! Sara must be wishing with all her heart that she could reverse this afternoon's unfortunate decision. For, in spite of her casual selfishness, she had a strong family feeling and would hate to pull less than her weight in the new and difficult circumstances. It was not as though she were good at saying she was sorry. Even as a little girl, Sara had never been the one to "climb down". It was always the other person (usually Anne herself) who had had to make the concessions. And, from all accounts, Murray Farraday was not a man who made concessions. If only there were a tactful intermediary! And then - Anne suddenly caught her breath on a bold and terrifying possibility. Could she somehow pluck up enough courage to speak to him on Sara's behalf? And, if so, what could she say? Anne felt her mouth go dry and her heart begin to race uncomfortably. She also became aware that Gregory had been speaking to her and that she had not taken in anything he had said.

She glanced nervously along the path to where Murray Farraday was now standing, still with his back to them, leaning him arms on the low wall which divided the gardens from the actual river bank. Dare she? On scared impulse, she turned to her companion. "I'm terribly sorry, Gregory. I - wasn't - attending. I was just thinking - wondering—" Then she stood up suddenly, feeling desperate but determined. "Will you wait here a minute? There's something I must say to Mr. Farraday." And, without waiting for Gregory to answer, or for her waning courage to desert her entirely, she ran towards the solitary figure leaning on the wall. At the sound of her hurried footsteps on the gravel path, he straightened up and turned. And, for the first time, Anne saw him face to face. Her first impression was astonishment that he should be so much younger than she had supposed. Certainly not more than thirty, in spite of that air of easy authority. Then hard, appraising blue eyes looked her over with a cool directness which gave Anne almost a physical shock, and she tried not to think how little promise of concession there was in that unsmiling, obstinate mouth. "Mr. Farraday, may I - may I speak to you, please?" She had never been more frightened in her life, but she forced the words out in a breathless little voice which did not sound much like her own. He didn't speak or smile, even then. He just nodded curtly, without taking his eyes off her, and waited. Waited - while Anne tried

desperately to think of words which would clothe her request in dignified yet persuasive form.

CHAPTER TWO "MR. FARRADAY, it's about my sister - Sara Brendall," Anne said at last, and felt immediately that she had somehow made a bad beginning. It was not so much that his expression became harder, as that he looked as though he had no interest whatever in what she was saying. "You - you dismissed her this afternoon, didn't you?" "For gross impertinence," he agreed, speaking for the first time, in a deep, abrupt voice which might have been pleasant if the tone had not been so curt. Anne bit her lip. "I'm terribly sorry. You must forgive my interfering, but I know Sara - my sister is very - very impulsive, and doesn't always realize how rude she sounds, and—" "I have no use for a secretary who doesn't realize how rude she sounds," he interrupted dryly, and Anne felt her cheeks go hot. "Mr. Farraday, I'm not doing this very well—" "Not very," he agreed, and, if he had not looked so unsmiling still, she would have thought there was some cynical amusement in that. "- but I'm really a good deal scared, speaking to you like this, and it's difficult to find the right words." He said nothing helpful about there being no need for her to be scared. He simply waited again - presumably until she should find the right words. Anne cleared her throat nervously and began again. "Please don't think that Sara - my sister sent me to you," she said earnestly. "She hasn't any idea that I'm speaking to you now, and she'd probably be angry if she knew. But when I saw you - someone pointed you out to me -1 thought maybe I should take the opportunity

and try to explain that I'm sure Sara didn't - didn't mean whatever it was she said. She's not impertinent and - and bad-tempered really. And I know she's very sorry—" "How do you know?" He asked that without interest. Merely, Anne felt desperately, as though he thought she should substantiate her statements. And this one, of course, was difficult to substantiate. "I know her so well that I can't help being aware that she's upset," she offered timidly. "Upset because she's lost a well-paid job," he amplified impatiently. "Not for any other reason at all." Anne clasped her hands together with a faintly supplicating gesture of which she was unaware, and tried another tack. "Mr. Farraday, there's something else too - though I know this is quite a personal matter. It's been a - a very unhappy day for us altogether. We - there's been a death in our family and it's left the the family finances in a state where Sara's salary has suddenly become of great importance, and—" "Miss Brendall," he interrupted dryly, "I'm a business man, and I don't engage or pay my staff according to their degree of family misfortune. Your sister is a good secretary in most ways. That's why she has been employed by me, at an excellent salary, for some time. To put it vulgarly, she's been getting above her boots lately, and I've decided to replace her by someone who is efficient and knows her place. That's really all there is to it, so far as I'm concerned." "I see."

Anne spoke almost in a whisper, and she thought that never in her life had she regretted anything more than this appeal to Murray Farraday. If only she had not humiliated herself - and, by implication, Sara - to this degree! "Well, I - don't think there's anything more to say." She tried to make that sound as though she had a little dignity left. "I'm sorry I troubled you." "You didn't trouble me," he told her. "I think you were more troubled than I was." And for the first time he smiled. In an odd way, that smile comforted Anne a little for the disappointment and humiliation. And, as she returned rather slowly to Gregory, she contrived not to look quite so defeated as she felt. Gregory rose and came to join her, as soon as he saw her leave Murray Farraday. And, when he spoke to her, there was friendly concern in his tone, though all he said was: "I didn't know you knew Farraday." "I don't," Anne said, "I didn't," she added in correction because she felt suddenly that she had come to know one side of him painfully well in the last few minutes. Gregory glanced at her curiously and smiled. "Just introduced yourself, eh?" "Yes. But not with success," she admitted. "There'd been some trouble with Sara, and I was silly enough to see myself as intermediary. I made an awful hash of it, and ought to have minded my own business." "I'm sure you were very tactful and charming," he said.

She shook her head. "No, I wasn't. I was naive and Pollyanna-ish, and he thought me an idiot - which I was." Gregory laughed protestingly, and took her by the arm. "Nonsense. You're always your own harshest critic." "I feel pretty sure Mr. Farraday is doing a bit of acid mental criticism at the moment," Anne replied, with a regretful sigh. But the touch of Gregory's hand on her arm was wonderfully comforting. "Don't tell Sara I spoke to him, will you?" "Of course not." "I'll tell her myself later, you know," Anne explained, anxious that he should not suppose she would deceive her sister, and he seemed both amused and touched by the confidence. Then the other two rejoined them, very well satisfied with their swim, and, at the same time, a waiter came to tell them that there was a table free, near the dance floor. It was late by the time the girls came home, and their mother was in bed. Probably neither of them would have acknowledged that this was a relief, but both were secretly glad that there were to be no further discussions that night. "What are you going to do tomorrow, Sara?" Anne asked, as Sara followed her into the kitchen, to watch her admit Fernando, the large and benevolent tabby who ruled the Brendall family with a lighter but even surer - touch than Mrs. Brendall herself. "I'll leave at the usual time. I've worked it all out," Sara said with decision.

"Do you mean you'll just go out tomorrow as though you're going to Farradays as usual ?" Anne asked a little anxiously. Sara nodded. "And I'll get a fresh job before I come home tomorrow," she declared with confidence. Anne looked at her sister with some admiration. It must be nice to be so confident, she thought. And then her own unsuccessful efforts smote her conscience afresh. "Sara, I did something rather stupid this evening. I'm afraid you'll be mad with me," she said slowly. "What did you do ? Flirt with Gregory ?" "No!" "All right. It's not a capital offence if you did. I think he'd enjoy it," Sara declared. Anne passed that by with a smile and the faintest heightening of colour. "It was nothing like that. Sara - I spoke to Mr. Farraday." "Whatever for?" Sara looked astonished. "Do you mean - just made yourself pleasant to him?" "Oh, no. I spoke to him about you." "About me?" "Um-hm. Asked if he wouldn't - wouldn't consider things."

"How ridiculous of you! It wasn't the slightest good, of course?" "No, not the slightest." "I could have told you that," Sara said. "It would have saved you some unnecessary distress. I suppose you just keyed yourself up to do it and felt frightful ?" "I felt rather awful," Anne admitted. "You idiot," Sara said, not unkindly. "Are you very wild?" "No, I'm not wild." Sara stooped down to give Fernando a stroke. "I suppose you meant it well." "But it was terribly interfering." "Yes, terribly," Sara agreed. "Only I suppose we'd all have said 'What a good thing Anne did that' if it had succeeded," she added with rare insight. "Oh, yes. It was one of those ideas that are marvellous if they work out, and just plain silly if they don't," Anne said. And they both laughed a little. "I'm glad you don't mind too much." "Was he very horrid?" Sara asked with real curiosity. "He made me feel smaller than I like to feel," Anne admitted. "But, right at the end, he smiled rather nicely and I didn't feel quite so bad. I can't tell you why." "He has an attractive smile when he likes," Sara conceded unexpectedly. "Well, never mind. Don't think about him again. He's gone out of our lives. Tomorrow I'll make a fresh start."

"I wish I had your confidence, Sara," Anne said with a smile. "Because I'll have to find some sort of job too now." Sara gave her a glance of not unkindly speculation. "I can't quite imagine how you'll make out in most of the usual jobs," she said with sisterly candour. "But I suppose it will be all right. Most people with guts can do most things if they have to." And on this philosophical conclusion the two girls said goodnight and went to bed. The next morning, everything was Disconcertingly so, according to Pansy.

astonishingly

normal.

"It doesn't seem quite right, somehow, to go off to school, in the ordinary way, when everything's gone all wrong," she said hopefully. No one seemed inclined to share this view. And presently Pansy departed reluctantly for her particular seat of learning. Ten minutes later, Sara and Richard also left the house, and Anne and her mother could drink their second cup of coffee in an atmosphere of calm which always seemed faintly unnatural in contrast to the bustle of departure which preceded it each morning. "Of course, Pansy is right in one way," Mrs. Brendall remarked, after a few minutes' silent reflection. "It doesn't seem right for us to be sitting here as if nothing had happened." "Yes, I wanted to speak about that." Anne glanced at the clock, to see how much time she could spare from present duties to discuss future arrangements. "Mother dear, I'll have to find some sort of job, you know. And that means there will be a good deal more for you to do at home, I'm afraid."

"Of course, dear!" Mrs. Brendall agreed to this, with all the enthusiasm of one who subscribed in theory to some course which she had no intention of following in practice. "A part-time job, of course, would be the thing for you. Something in the afternoons," she added pleasantly, as though the conditions of employment would naturally be arranged to suit the employee. "It might not be possible to arrange it just that way," Anne felt bound to point out. "I'll have to make inquiries and see what I can do." But at least she had introduced the general idea into her mother's mind and, deciding not to press the matter until she had something definite to discuss, she rose to clear the breakfast table and begin her morning's work. About half-past eleven the telephone bell rang, and Anne, hoping that this might be Sara, ringing up to give good news, hurried to answer the call before her mother could. But it was not Sara's voice that spoke. Anne immediately recognized the rather deeply pitched, curt voice which said: "I should like to speak to Miss Brendall, please." That Murray Farraday himself should have telephoned could surely mean only one thing! Contrary to all precedent, he must have repented of a harsh decision, particularly as he was actually inquiring for Sara. "I'm awfully sorry - she's not in just now, but—" "Isn't that Miss Brendall speaking?" "No. At least, I'm the other Miss Brendall," Anne explained a little confusedly. "This isn't Sara Brendall, Mr. Farraday."

The short laugh was possibly a tribute to the speed with which she had recognized his voice. "Well, it's 'the other Miss Brendall' I want," he said. "Are you the one who spoke to me yesterday evening?" "Y-yes," said Anne - curiosity struggling with her disappointment at discovering that he did not immediately want to reinstate Sara. "Could you make it convenient to call in at my office this afternoon? I want to speak to you about something." "Why-yes, I think so." "At two-thirty?" "Yes." Anne found that she was too much surprised to do anything but agree to all he suggested, in the shortest terms possible. "Thank you," he said, and rang off. Evidently he too was in no mood to waste words. Anne slowly replaced the receiver. If it was about Sara that he wanted to speak, why hadn't he said so? And, if it were not - then what was it? Anne tried to recall whether his tone had been friendly - or severe or indifferent. It was rather difficult to attribute any exact quality to it. Curt and authoritative, of course, but without any indication of whether the matter to be discussed had caused him further displeasure or improved his mood. In any case, Anne decided to say nothing to her mother about the appointment. For one thing, it would be difficult to mention it without saying more about Sara than was desirable. And, for another,

Anne felt that the more she talked or thought of the coming interview, the more nervous she would be. None of the other three came home to lunch in the middle of the day, and Anne contrived to keep her speculations and anxieties entirely to herself. At two o'clock, on the pretext of a shopping trip, she went off to her interview with Murray Farraday. A short bus ride brought her to the centre of the town. Midchester had been a market town long before the iron and steel works had changed it into a thriving manufacturing centre, and it still retained many of the characteristic features of a rural community. The stop at which Anne alighted was still the almost unspoilt Market Square, and from there she had only a short walk to the large, imposing building which housed the office staff of Farraday & Son. The friendly liftman who took Anne up to the first floor seemed interested in the purpose of her visit when he heard that she wanted to see Mr. Farraday himself. "You got an appointment with him?" he inquired. "You won't get to see him without an appointment, you know." "I have an appointment," Anne said, pleasantly but uninformatively. "Miss Thorn's the one that's interviewing the young ladies for the office vacancy," the liftman assured her. "I haven't come to see about an office vacancy," Anne replied, reflecting, with a pang, that this office vacancy had been created by Sara's sudden departure. By that time the lift had reached the first floor, and the man drew back the folding gate and pointed out the right door with faint

reluctance. It was obvious that he was rather disappointed at having elicited no more information. Anne had a humorous impulse to say, "Don't worry. I don't know any more than you do why I'm here." But she checked the impulse and opened the door marked, "Farraday & Son. Inquiries. Please walk in." She found herself in a large, light office, where half a dozen girls were busily typing, cut off from the mere inquirer by a long polished counter. One of the girls came forward immediately to the counter to ask what she wanted. "I have an appointment with Mr. Farraday at two-thirty. My name is Miss Brendall," Anne explained. "Oh, yes. Will you come this way?" The girl raised a flap in the counter and admitted Anne. She led the way to a door on the other side of the big room, and as Anne followed, she felt - or perhaps imagined - that everyone glanced at her with surreptitious sympathy and interest. Whether this was because she was Sara sister, or because she was going to interview the firm's chief dragon, she would not have liked to say. As the door was opened for her, she braced herself, expecting to be admitted directly into The Presence. But the room into which she was conducted was obviously a waiting-room, albeit a very impressive one. "Mr. Farraday won't be more than a few minutes," the girl told her. And then her expression changed to one of friendly interest and she added, "You're Sara Brendall's sister, aren't you? Don't worry too

much about anything Mr. F. says. His bark's a lot worse than his bite." Anne smiled gratefully in return, but she wanted to say, that though Mr. Farraday's bark might be better than his bite, she had no particular wish to be barked at either. However, she murmured something non-committal instead, and then the girl went out again, closing the door after her, and Anne was left alone. A few minutes later an inner door opened and Murray Farraday came into the room. "Good afternoon, Miss Brendall." He shook hands with her, and Anne - curiously sensitive to different types of handclasps - liked the way his long, strong fingers closed round hers. "Will you come into my office?" He held the door open for her, and Anne went through into the rich, slightly sombre room which Sara had often described to her. The deep-pile carpet, the heavy mahogany furniture, the stamped leather chairs had a sort of familiarity about them. She even remembered how Sara had said that Mr. Farraday's desk was set so that he had his back to the great window, while the light fell full on anyone who was facing him. That was to be her position now, she realized, as he set one of the heavy leather chairs for her, and then took his seat on the other side of the desk. However, the discovery tended to stiffen, rather than dissipate, her determination not to show her nervousness. So she raised her chin bravely, fixed her blue eyes determinedly on Murray Farraday, and said: "Was it about Sara that you wanted to see me?" "About your sister? No, certainly not. I have nothing further to say about your sister," he assured her crisply. "I wanted to speak to you about yourself."

"About - me?" Anne's not very well-founded composure partially deserted her. "Yes. When you spoke to me yesterday evening, you mentioned that certain rather unfortunate changes had taken place in your family finances. Does that mean that you yourself are looking for employment?" "I?" cried Anne in great dismay. "Oh, I couldn't possibly be your secretary! Why, I don't even - " "I'm not proposing that you should be my secretary," he assured her with grim amusement. "I'm not at all in the habit of engaging a private secretary on momentary impulse and without any inquiry as to qualifications." Anne coloured deeply, and suddenly felt very young and silly. "I'm - sorry." She dropped her eyes, finding it quite impossible to maintain the level, self-possessed gaze which she had first directed upon him. "What did you mean exactly?" "Well, Miss Brendall" - he tipped back his chair, as though relaxing a little from the formality of the occasion and inviting her to do the same - "my mother is in need of a companion who can carry out light - really rather light - secretarial duties. She doesn't require anything like the frightening degree of efficiency which I demand." Anne knew that he was smiling amusedly, but she refused to look up. "Nor does she require full-time service. I thought, if you were interested, you might be willing to discuss possibilities with her. What do you say?" What did she say! For a moment, Anne felt incapable of saying anything, between astonishment at the proposition, relief at the

discovery that Sara was under no fresh cloud, and confusion over her own absurd mistake. And then - more interesting than all of these - why had he chosen her? He knew nothing about her, except that he believed she badly needed the job. And he had said Suddenly, Anne looked up with a quick smile that was almost mischievous. "Mr. Farraday, I thought you said you never engaged people because of family misfortune," she said demurely. "I don't, Miss Brendall." Those rather hard blue eyes met hers in that disconcertingly direct way, but they were smiling a little. "Then why offer the job - to me?" "Because I think you have most of the qualities my mother would like." "You don't know anything about me!" exclaimed Anne in surprise. "Oh, yes, I do." He actually laughed at that. "How? Who told you?" "Nobody told me. I used my own observation." Anne's eyes opened very wide. "What could your observation possibly tell you in so short a time?" she asked with real curiosity. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes - please." "Well then, you're courageous - or eke you wouldn't have tackled me last night; loyal - or you wouldn't have spoken up for a sister whom you strongly suspected of being in the wrong; sweet-tempered - or you would have a very different set to your mouth. In addition, you're extremely easy to look at and have a very beautifully pitched speaking voice. These are all qualities which would appeal very much to my mother. If, in addition, you have the minimum qualifications necessary for being a companion-secretary, we shall be fortunate. Now what do you say?" Never in her life had Anne had such flattering things said to her in so unemotional a tone. From any other man, the speech would have been overwhelmingly complimentary. As Murray Farraday made it, he might have been ticking off the points of a horse he was about to buy, and Anne had an almost irresistible desire to laugh and laugh. But, a long with that, went a sudden sensation of exhilaration and excitement, a heady impulse to snatch at something which she knew instinctively would have great difficulties and drawbacks, but odd, fascinating compensations too. "What do you say?" he had asked her for the second time. And there was only one thing for her to say. She said it, with her wide blue eyes smiling back into his hard, speculative ones. "I say yes, of course, Mr. Farraday. And thank you very much for the chance."

CHAPTER THREE "GOOD." Murray Farraday stood up, with the air of one who had solved yet another of the day's minor problems. "I'll drive you out now, and you can talk things over with my mother." "Oh, but—" Anne felt she was being rushed off her feet in a rather alarming way. "Yes?" He paused beside her, his eyebrows raised inquiringly as though her objection - or indeed, any objection - were unwelcome. "N-nothing," Anne admitted. "I just hadn't expected to settle everything this afternoon." "Why not?" From his tone she gathered that he thought poorly of anyone who created unnecessary delays. "Well—" Anne felt she could hardly say that she was only just getting used to the idea herself and that her family would be astounded to find that the domestic pivot of the household had arranged to desert them, without even consulting them. Then her common sense told her that this was what she had decided on in theory, and it was absurd to lose an opportunity of putting the theory into immediate practice. She looked up at him and smiled. "It's quite all right. I'll come with you now. There's no reason why not." "Come along, then."

He held open the door for her. Anne was glad that he took her out of the room by a door which led directly into the passage. It would have been something of an ordeal to walk back past all those girls in company with their Mr. Farraday. As it was, the liftman had difficulty in suppressing his astonishment that she should not only go in to see Mr. Farraday, but come out with him more or less in tow. Only his respect for "the Guv'nor" enabled him to conceal his interest, and Anne was aware that he stared after them openly as they crossed the big, spacious entrance hall and went out into the sunshine. "We're about four miles outside Midchester, at Benham Lodge. Do you know the house?" he inquired, as they set off in his Rolls. "I have seen it from the road," Anne told him. "But never close at hand, of course." "It's quite a nice place," he said - indifferently, Anne thought. "If you decide to take on the job, you'll find you can get a bus from the Market Place which stops a hundred yards from the main gate." "That will be very convenient," Anne said politely. And then conversation languished, for it was difficult to maintain a flow of talk with someone who shared no common background with you. It was doubly difficult when you felt somewhat in awe of your companion. But presently Anne felt that something should be said. Besides, she genuinely wanted to have some information about her possible employer. So, after a short silence, she asked rather diffidently: "Isn't Mrs. Farraday something of an invalid? I think I've heard so." "Yes. She had a bad riding accident some while ago, and never quite recovered. Sometimes she is very well, but she tends to overtax her

strength and always pays for it. My father and I are not very good at managing her, I'm afraid," he added, rather surprisingly. Then, still more surprisingly - "You may be better at it than we are." "I don't know that I'm specially good at 'managing' people," she said earnestly. And, for some reason or other, he laughed at that. But he did not offer to say why, and, as they turned in at the big gates of Benham Lodge at that moment, Anne refrained from inquiring. The drive sloped sharply upwards, but curved twice, so that one arrived almost directly in front of the house before it was possible to have a real view of it. It was - as Anne had gathered when she glimpsed it from the road - a very beautiful Georgian house, with the characteristic pillared front and semi-circular steps leading up to the front door. And it was sheer admiration and delight which made her exclaim: "It's a beautiful house!" "Yes, I suppose it is," he agreed. And then, opening the front door, he ushered her into a square, polished hall, with doors opening off it on either side, and a gallery built right round it at first-floor level. The paint everywhere was white, except where natural polished wood had been used, and the whole effect was indescribably light and elegant and charming. "I'd love working here!" was Anne's first impulsive thought, and she paused for a moment, smiling round her with sheer pleasure. Murray led the way into a light, panelled drawing-room. Long french windows at one end opened on to a terrace, and beyond that Anne caught a glimpse of a smooth lawn and almost insolently brilliant and gaily coloured flower-beds.

Of the room itself she took in little more than a general impression of green and cream brocade, and elegant satinwood furniture. What engaged most of her shy attention was the sole occupant, a graceful, dark-haired woman who was lying in a chaise-longue near the window. She was stitching languidly at something in an embroidery frame when they came in. But, as she looked up at their entry, Anne saw there was nothing languid about the brilliant, restless dark eyes which flicked no more than a glance at her son and then travelled on to concentrate on his companion. Murray Farraday bent over her and kissed her - a little perfunctorily, Anne thought. "Hallo, Mother. Here's Miss Brendall. I told you about her." "Come here and let me have a look at you, child." She held out a thin, very beautiful hand to Anne, who came forward at once and clasped the hand in her warm one. "She's very pretty, just as you said." Mrs. Farraday addressed her son, but continued to regard Anne, who blushed faintly but smiled in a friendly way because, for some inexplicable reason, she found herself feeling rather sorry for both the Farradays. "I'm not considered very pretty at home," she said. "My mother is much prettier than I am, and so is my elder sister." "It's probably a different kind of prettiness." Mrs. Farraday dismissed the mother and sister without interest. "Would you like to come and work for me?"

Anne thought this must surely be the most extraordinary way yet devised of engaging a secretary-companion. No one had asked anything about her qualifications yet, and the fact that she struck Mrs. Farraday as pretty could surely not be of paramount importance. "You don't know anything about my qualifications, yet, Mrs. Farraday," Anne reminded her gently. "Murray told me all about you." Anne recalled the qualities he had enumerated so impersonally, and that slightly mischievous smile flitted over her face again. "But he couldn't tell you very much, because he doesn't know much. Did he tell you, for instance, that I only type with two fingers and that I can't do shorthand at all?" "No." Mrs. Farraday smiled in her turn - a slow smile which showed her beautiful teeth. "It doesn't matter much anyway. I don't like the sound of a typewriter and prefer most of my letters to be written. There are not a great many - nowadays. I suppose you can write legibly and spell reasonably well?" "Oh - yes, I think I could manage to do that," Anne said, very much aware of Murray Farraday's silent presence during this odd conversation, though he was no longer standing beside them, but had gone over to the fireplace, where he stood leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece. "Murray, mind that Venetian glass figure." Mrs. Farraday had not even glanced at him as she said that, but Anne realized that the dreaded Mr. Farraday straightened up immediately, though she thought there was a certain, almost boyish, resentment in his silence.

"Well, Miss Brendall, would you like to come and work for me?" Mrs. Farraday repeated, in that slow, rather husky voice. "Most days I should only want you in the afternoons." ("That will just suit Mother," thought Anne in amused parenthesis.) "Though occasionally I might want you to stay on for a while in the evening." Undoubtedly it was an almost perfect arrangement, which would leave her free to attend to a great many of her family duties still. But, more than that, Anne was intrigued and even somewhat thrilled by the people who lived in this beautiful house, and she felt an overwhelming urge to accept a position which would mean that she knew more of them - even though she sensed instinctively that not all her increased knowledge would be pleasant knowledge. "Yes, I'd like to come, Mrs. Farraday," she said firmly. "Though I've never had a such post before - or indeed, any post," she added a little ingenuously. "I've always just run things at home. So you may find that I don't know about all the things you want, but I'll try to learn." Mrs. Farraday paid this the tribute of a smile which was faintly reminiscent of her son, though there was hardly any physical likeness between them. "You had better talk to her about her salary, Murray," she said rather boredly. "She's the first girl I've known who accepted a post without inquiring about the salary." Anne bit her lip and blushed. She hoped neither of them guessed that the omission was due entirely to inexperience in these matters, and not at all to beauty of disposition or indifference to money matters. In fact, when she thought how little she could afford to be indifferent to money matters, she hoped anxiously that she had not already committed herself to something which she could not possibly afford to take on, however much the other aspects of the arrangement might please her.

However, before she could indulge in further anxious speculation, Murray Farraday spoke with his usual directness. "The salary will be twenty pounds a week. Is that agreeable to you, Miss Brendall?" It was so extremely agreeable that Miss Brendall gasped. "Oh, yes, that - will be - quite all right," she managed to say, and controlled a desire to explain that she very much doubted if she were worth that. "Well, then - this is Friday. Will you start on Monday?" "Yes," Anne said at the same time as Mrs. Farraday exclaimed a little impatiently: "Why not tomorrow? I shan't usually want her on Saturdays; but there are several things to clear up." "She probably has some private arrangements to make," replied her son, with the peculiar indifference with which the Farradays seemed to address each other. "I should prefer Monday, if you don't mind, Mrs. Farraday," Anne said gently. And so it was arranged. He drove her back into town, after she had rejected his offer to drive her right home. "I expect you want to get back to the office," Anne said. "And I have some shopping to do, anyway." In his usual businesslike manner, he pointed out to her where she could get the bus in future, and gave her information about times and services.

"My mother will expect you, then, about two o'clock on Monday," he said finally, as he drew the car to a standstill at the side of the Market Square. "I'll be there," Anne promised. And then, feeling that she must somehow acknowledge the fact that he had removed some considerable anxiety from her shoulders, she added, "And thank you, Mr. Farraday, for - for being so kind." He looked amused, but he gave her his hand as he said good-bye. "There wasn't much kindness about it, Miss Brendall," he assured her. "You happened to suit us, that's all." "Well, it was nice of you to give me the chance, and even to recommend me, on so slight an acquaintance," Anne said. And then she got out of the car, and he drove off without a second glance at her. Conscientiously, Anne brought her mind to the matter of household shopping. Not until she had ticked off all the items on her shopping list, and had boarded the bus to go home, did she permit herself to reflect at length on her experiences that afternoon. It was difficult to believe that, in so short a time, she had made such a radical change in the pattern of her life. That she was really to go daily to Benham Lodge and "manage" the beautiful and unpredictable Mrs. Farraday seemed quite fantastic now. "But I've said that I would," Anne reminded herself, with a sort of pleasurable nervousness. "And, anyway, it will mean regular money every week - and that's going to be very important in future." How important was brought home to her very sharply when she arrived back at Barrowhead. Sara had come in half an hour before

and had broken the news to her mother at last that she had left Farradays. It was true that she could also announce that she had obtained other employment - with one of the bit wholesale traders in the town - but her salary was rather less than she had received as Murray Farraday's secretary. "Darling, I don't want to sound mean or censorious," Mrs. Brendall was saying, as Anne came in. "But every penny is going to count in the next few years." "Yes, I know." Sara spoke curtly. "Oh, Anne - " Mrs. Brendall turned to her second daughter. "Have you heard about Sara? She's lost her job at Farradays'." "But I found another one today," Sara broke in, impatiently and a little defensively. "At Birchingtons. The prospects are quite good." "But the present salary is much less," countered her mother reproachfully. "Long-term views are all very well, dear, but present salaries are also important. Besides, to be connected with Farradays' was such a good thing. I'm sorry you've thrown away all that. They're much the most important people in Midchester. It really distress me to think we no longer have any sort of connection with them." "Well, as a matter of fact, we still have, Mother," Anne said - not without enjoyment at the sensation she was about to cause. "Mrs. Farraday engaged me today to be her secretary- companion. I'm to start on Monday afternoon." "My dear child! What are you talking about?" "Anne! She hasn't! How on earth did you engineer that?"

Anne laughed rather excitedly, because really the astonishment of Sara and her mother was the measure of the success she had achieved. "Mr. Farraday phoned this morning and asked me to come along to his office this afternoon. So I went, and he offered me the job, and then he drove me out to Benham Lodge, and Mrs. Farraday and I just fixed it up," she explained rather breathlessly. "But I don't understand! Why should he?" her mother wanted to know. But Sara said quickly: "Was it because of last night?" Anne smiled at her sister and nodded. "I think so." "It's the sort of thing he might do," Sara conceded. "He probably liked your pluck, even if he was horrid to you." "I don't understand what anyone is talking about," exclaimed Mrs. Brendall plaintively. So Anne explained, at some length, about her attempt to intercede with Murray Farraday, and how it had led to her being offered a post herself. And when she reached the bit about her duties being largely afternoon ones, Mrs. Brendall smiled approvingly and gave it as her opinion that "perhaps all was for the best, after all." "Well, between us, we shall be bringing in a not bad weekly income," Sara said. "But we'll have to cut things pretty close to keep our heads above water, Mother," she added warningly. For both girls knew it

would not do to slip into the easy assumption that all could now be as it had always been. "Yes, of course. It will be a great struggle putting Richard through college now," Mrs. Brendall agreed. The girls exchanged glances. "It may not even be possible at all," Sara stated firmly. But Mrs. Brendall would not hear of that. "Of course Richard must go to college. I've set my heart on that," she cried reproachfully. "We must all be ready to make a few sacrifices to achieve that." Neither of the girls liked to point out that all the sacrifices in the world would not produce more money than was actually coming in. With what they knew to be cowardly prevarication, they let the matter rest for the moment. However, they need not have worried. Richard himself had settled the question by the time he came in to tea. "I'm leaving school at midsummer," he announced casually over his third slice of buttered toast. "And I'm starting in Colman and Marshall's office the first week in August." "Richard!" shrieked everyone in chorus. And Airs. Brendall added in a maternal wail, "But you're going to take your degree in economics, darling." "Not now," Richard stated with good-natured brevity.

"Of course you are! Don't be so silly!" exclaimed his exasperated parent. "Why, you have a most brilliant future in front of you. You're nearly a genius at figures, and with a degree in economics - " "Look here, Mother, I don't need to take a degree to establish one simple economic fact," Richard interrupted, still with unshakeable good temper, "and that is that you have to pay your way in a rather hard world, or else someone else has to pay it for you. Up to now, I've been lucky. I've had Uncle Ted to pay my way for me. Now it's different and I'm certainly not going to have the girls working their heads off for me, when I'm quite old enough to start off on my own. I'll be seventeen in June. More people than not have to start earning their own living by then." "But you'll just be a boy in the office," wailed Mrs. Brendall, with her bright visions of future premierships and professorships fading. "If I'm a genius at figures, as you say, a stockbroker's office isn't a bad place to start," replied Richard, unmoved. So that was that for the time being. A little later, Sara seized an opportunity of speaking to Anne alone, and asked her outright: "Do you very much hate the idea of working for Mrs. Farraday?" "Why, no." Anne looked surprised. "I'm rather intrigued and excited about it." Then, after a moment, she added: "I rather like Mr. Farraday, Sara." "Yes? Well, you haven't seen him in a temper yet," was Sara's not very reassuring reply. "Is it such a bad temper?"

"It's violent rather than bad," Sara said with a nice distinction. "He doesn't nag and he's not malicious, but he can fly into a sudden rage, and then his language is the bluest I've ever heard." "Oh." Anne looked rather sober. "Discouraged?" asked Sara with some amusement. "No. I was thinking that sounded much more like strained nerves than ill-nature." "Nerves!" Sara sounded sceptical. "Murray Farraday hasn't got any nerves, if you ask me. What is she like? I've never seen her." "Very lovely," Anne said slowly. "But quite capable of being very trying, I suspect. Mr. Farraday says that neither he nor his father can manage her very well. He seemed to think I might." Sara's eyebrows went up. "Unusual for him to think anyone can do something better than he can," was her comment. "But perhaps he's right. You do manage people well, of course." "Do I?" Anne looked surprised again. "Of course. You manage all of us pretty well, come to that," Sara said good-naturedly. "I'd like to see you managing him." Anne smiled, a little demurely. "I haven't been engaged to manage him," she pointed out. And then changed the subject to - "I'm just going to slip over to Mrs. Jermyn's with a pot of raspberry jam. I promised her some. Are you coming too?"

But Sara shook her head. "A walk of over a mile isn't my idea of 'slipping over' to see someone," she said. "Besides, I never know quite what to say to your old cottage ladies. You'd better go yourself." "All right." Anne smiled and, slipping on a coat, went out of the house alone. Afterwards, she used to wonder whether many things would have been changed if Sara had come with her that evening. It was all of a mile to Mrs. Jermyn's cottage. And then Anne had to stay and listen to the old lady's expressions of gratitude, mingled with an account of her grandson's exploits in the Navy, and certain pungent comments on the conduct of her next-door neighbours. By the time Anne was able to leave again, the light was beginning to fade. And, with a sigh for an almost completely lost evening, she crossed the road to take the short cut home through the fields. Then it was that she realized the evening had been anything but lost. Coming towards her across the field was Gregory, and, at the sight of her, he waved his hand and smiled as though nothing could have pleased him better than to find her here. Anne stood beside the stile, waiting for him to come up with her, warmed by a tide of feeling which she did not attempt to identify. But when he reached her, she only said shyly: "Hallo, Gregory. I was on my way home." "May I come with you, then?" He was smiling down at her, and his admiring dark eyes told her that her old cream coat was the prettiest thing that any girl could wear.

"If you like." She returned his smile. "But you were going in the opposite direction." "It's all the same to me. I'm not doing anything but stretch my legs," he told her. And, with that assurance, she let him take her hand and help her over the stile. When they were on the path, the other side, he did not release her hand. And because it would have been a little ostentatious to pull her hand away, she let him keep it. Besides, she liked the feel of his fingers on hers. "How did things go today?" She knew that was not just a perfunctory question, but that he was really eager to know whether her anxieties had been lightened. So she told him what had happened and even - in the new and sudden intimacy which had sprung up between them - something of her changing feelings as she had progressed from acute anxiety to pleased interest in what she had taken on. At the end, all he said was: "So it's all fixed up?" "Yes. I start on Monday." He looked restless and curiously dissatisfied. "What is it, Gregory?" She was puzzled. "Don't you - like the idea?" "I don't like the idea of somebody being able to order you around, when you've been your own mistress for years," he said with unusual curtness.

"Why, Gregory—" She caught her breath on a surprised little laugh, because the oddest note of possessive annoyance had crept into his tone. "I don't mind that in the least. Why should I? Most people who earn their own living have to take orders from someone. If that's the worst I have to put up with in our changed circumstances, I shan't need to complain." "You mean - things are going to be pretty tough during the next few years?" His fingers tightened on hers. "In some ways - yes." "Anne" - he stopped and drew her towards him by the hand he was holding - "let me take you away out of all that. I'm crazy about you. You're so sweet and quiet and - and sane. They'll all impose on you, and you'll have to carry a double burden now, because they'll expect you to do all you used to do as well as run around after these confounded Farradays. Chuck up the whole thing and marry me, darling. You shall have everything the way you want it, and you shan't be ordered around by anyone then."

CHAPTER FOUR "WHY, Gregory!" Surprise and delight and the most delicious sense of security flooded over Anne. "I had no idea you felt like that." "No idea? You must have." "Well" - she laughed and coloured a little - "I was beginning to hope - think that perhaps you liked me rather a lot. But I never thought -1 never imagined - anything as lovely as this happening." "Then you do think it's lovely!" The almost ingenuous candour of that enchanted him, and, catching her close against him, he kissed her, first on her cheek and then on her lips. And she found herself returning his kisses and wondering if it were only her imagination that there was a golden glow over everything. "Darling, please say categorically that you love me." He held her at arms' length, and when she nodded and smiled, he exclaimed, as though no one in love had ever thought of asking that question before, "When did you first fall in love with me?" "When I was about eleven," Anne said, and they both laughed and found each other's lips again. "You were such a wonderful bowler or fielder or something - I've forgotten what. I thought you better than a pop star." "Did you?" Though he was amused and incredulous, he was unspeakably gratified too. "But I don't think I knew you then, did I?" "Oh, no. I was merely part of your admiring public when you played cricket on Saturday afternoons." "Anne!" He was curiously touched. "Did you really notice me then?"

"Yes. And afterwards, when you were a student." "Oh, but I was insufferable at that time, and rushed about on a stinking motor-bike that backfired all over the place," he protested. "All quite true," Anne agreed with a smile. "But there is an age that loves student and offensive motor-bikes, you know." "Oh, darling, what an adorable sense of humour you have," he declared. But he added anxiously, "It wasn't all just schoolgirl crush, though, was it? I mean - afterwards, it was different?" "Afterwards it was different," Anne said. And, smiling back into his anxious dark eyes, she knew she would never feel shy of him again. "Then it's all right, and you're going to marry me?" For the first time something of the golden glow faded. As though the cool breath of reality touched their dreams, Anne remembered that it was not all as straightforward as Gregory wanted to make it. "Yes, of course I'll marry you," she said slowly. "I'll love to marry you. Only it can't be right away, Gregory." "Why not?" He sounded as imperious as any Murray Farraday at that. "Because I couldn't desert the family, at this time of all times." "Dear, don't be absurd! It wouldn't be desertion." "Oh, yes, it would. They depend on me for all sorts of things. And I couldn't leave Sara - and Richard - to carry the financial burden alone."

"But, my dear," he said impatiently, "I would be willing to contribute whatever you yourself had expected to put into the common fund. I could afford it, Anne, and it would be a cheap price to pay for you." She acknowledged his generosity with a quick kiss, but she continued to look serious. "It wouldn't do, dear. Not just at the moment. It isn't only the money. Someone has got to hold the family together," she said thoughtfully. "Your mother—" he began angrily. But she shook her head and said, "Oh, no." He was silent for a moment, trying, she saw, to adjust himself to her point of view. "How long would you want," he said at last, "to train up your family to look after themselves ?" Anne laughed. She could laugh because she knew he had not meant that sarcastically. Only as an effort towards seeing her point of view. "Gregory dear" - she took his arm - "it's not that I'm not just as eager - just as impatient as you are. But it wouldn't be a great hardship to be engaged for a year and—" "It certainly would!" he exclaimed. "But lots of people are engaged for as long as that, and longer." "We're not 'lots of people'," he told her. "We are ourselves, individuals, with lives of our own and futures which need moulding. You've always put your family first, Anne. That's partly why they all hang on you automatically. Don't put them first in this, darling. This

is the most important thing that has ever happened to us. Don't alter it for the convenience of the family." She walked on slowly, not answering him at first. "Listen, Gregory," she said at last. "It's true that this is the most important thing in our lives, but it isn't only our lives that have to be considered. My family have just taken a bad knock. This is the time when they need me. Not only what money I can earn, but me, personally. Things won't always be like that—" "Are you sure?" he interrupted with a wry little smile. "Yes, of course." She looked startled. "Let's have the happiness of being engaged - that would be a lot to miss, you know - and when the family have adjusted themselves to the new pattern, and we can all see our way ahead more clearly, then we'll get married." "And how long will that be?" He looked at her fondly, but he was frowning a little. "Gregory, let's be engaged for a year—" "Six months," he countered. "But—" She broke off and laughed worriedly. "Well, six months, and then we'll see how things are." "Fine!" He was delighted with what he evidently regarded as partial victory. "And you'll let Farraday know that you aren't going to play lady's maid to his mother, after all." "Gregory, don't be absurd!" Anne looked a good deal taken aback, both at his assumption that she should give up her newfound post and the resentful way he referred to it. "I've arranged to go to Mrs. Farraday on Monday and I'm certainly going. It's absolutely essential

that I have a paid job during the time until I'm married, and I should never find a better- paid one or one that fitted in more conveniently with my home responsibilities." "But I've told you, darling, that I'll see after the financial side of things." "I couldn't think of such a thing!" She was genuinely shocked. "Why not? You kissed me for suggesting it a minute ago." "Oh, Gregory, that was to be after we were married. I couldn't let you - let you support me while we were engaged." "I should love to," he said. "And I should hate it," Anne retorted firmly. He laughed, a little taken aback by her vehemence. "Does it really make you feel more independent to take Farraday's orders than to take my money?" "Of course," Anne said. And at that he laughed rather crossly and said she was illogical. But he gave in. Possibly because he saw that he had to. When they reached Barrowmead, he came in with her, and the news of their engagement was broken to, on the whole, a pleased and astonished family. "My dear child, nothing could have pleased me better!" her mother declared sincerely, for she loved weddings on principle, and thought at that moment that she could persuade Anne and Gregory to set up married life in Barrowmead.

"Don't rush things too much. We can't afford to part with you yet," was Sara's realistic comment, though she too said that she was pleased. Pansy inquired what sort of engagement ring Anne was going to have. And that reminded Gregory that they must go and buy the ring the following morning. "What about the afternoon?" Anne began. "The two best shops close on Saturday afternoon," Gregory reminded her. "Besides, darling, why not do it at the first possible moment? I feel like being on the doorstep when Saunders open." Anne smiled, and didn't like to say that Saturday was her busiest morning, and that this Saturday would be specially busy as she would have to leave everything in good running order for next week. Even the most domestically inclined fiancée found time to rejoice over the buying of her engagement ring, she reminded herself severely. So she said that she would love to go with Gregory in the morning. And everyone was very pleased, because it never entered the heads of any of them that Anne would not be able to fit everything in very nicely. In the end, she got up an hour earlier than usual. And, if she felt a little tired and driven by the time Gregory came for her, no one knew that, and everything was left in good order. It was, of course, an indescribably moving and thrilling moment when he did actually put her diamond and sapphire ring on her finger. And Anne forgot about being Mother's "home girl" with a lot of nagging responsibilities, and even about being Mrs. Farraday's companion-secretary, with a great many new things to learn. And for

a while she was just Gregory's fiancée, the happiest girl in Midchester. The lovely week-end sped away all too quickly, and Anne wished it had not been just this week that she had to start out on her new life. It would have been so entrancing to have a little leisure - or even the freedom for thought which familiar tasks permit - in which she could have lingered happily over discoveries and memories. As it was, she had to wrench her thoughts away from all the weekend had contained, and concentrate on making a success of her first afternoon at Benham Lodge. A woman she took to be the daily help showed her up to the room where she had been before. And there was Mrs. Farraday, lying by the window and embroidering once more. She looked up and said, just as though Anne had been coming there daily for weeks: "Oh, there you are, Miss Brendall. Would you like to bring over those letters on the side-table? I haven't opened them yet, but they're all just bills and receipts, I think." Anne brought over the letters, and drew up a chair beside the sofa. As she did so, she could not help exclaiming with pleasure at the delicacy and beauty of the embroidery in Mrs. Farraday's hand. "It is rather nice," her employer agreed, holding it up and regarding it without enthusiasm. "You must be very fond of that work to do it so beautifully," Anne said.

"No," Mrs. Farraday retorted. "I detest all work that has to be done sitting or lying down. But, since I have to do it, I see that I do it well. I hate poor standards in anything." Looking at her - the perfection of her beauty, her grooming, and Her expensively simple clothes - Anne thought she could well believe that. But the resentful curve to that very lovely mouth told Anne that the most important part of what Mrs. Farraday had said had been that reference to being forced to sit or lie down. "You have to spend a lot of your time resting, don't you?" she said gently. "Yes. I detest that too. And" - suddenly an almost roguish smile quite transformed Mrs. Farraday's face - "I don't always do it. But you needn't tell Murray or my husband that. Now open the letters. There's a paper-knife over there." Anne reached for the paper-knife and began to slit open the halfdozen envelopes. "Do you want me to read them, or just give them to you, Mrs. Farraday?" "Oh, just read them. They're all typed, aren't they?" "Yes, they're all typed." "Then there won't be anything very personal," Mrs. Farraday said. But she was wrong. The last letter which Anne drew out was not very expertly typed, and the writer opened very personally, with— "Sonia darling, - Can't you give that son of yours the slip, and come to town and have fun ?"

Anne read no further. She looked up and said: "I think this is a personal letter, Airs. Farraday. Would you rather read it yourself?" Mrs. Farraday held out a languid hand and took the letter. But, with one glance at the first few lines, her whole face changed. It was not only that she laughed in an excited, pleased way. It was as though a light sprang up inside her, glowing through the delicacy of ill-health and the film of boredom. As she read on and turned the page, she even murmured amused and pleased exclamations. Anne, for her part, endeavoured to appear exclusively interested in the bills and receipts which the other envelopes did indeed contain. Presently her employer looked up. "It's from a very old friend whom I haven't seen for ages," she explained, just a trifle smoothly. And the idea came, quite unbidden, into Anne's mind that the friend was a man. However, Mrs. Farraday's next remark dispelled that idea. "She wants me to come to town. - But perhaps you saw that?" The question was quite casual, but Anne, with unusually sharpened perceptions, was certain that Mrs. Farraday very much wanted to know, for some reason, how much of the letter she had read before she handed it over. "I only read the first sentence," Anne explained, "but I saw from that that your friend would like you to come." "How I wish I could go!"

Mrs. Farraday had cast aside her embroidery and was flicking the letter to and fro in her thin, white fingers. Anne remembered the warning about "managing" her. "The travelling would be rather a tax, wouldn't it?" she said warningly. "Oh, I could stand it." Mrs. Farraday dismissed that impatiently. "It's only that my husband - and even more Murray - always have the idea that if they let me go to town on my own, I'll do too much and get tired." "Which is possibly true?" Anne smiled at her. "Possibly." Again that curiously roguish, quite enchanting smile flickered over Mrs. Farraday's face. "But worth it." "That depends on whether you did yourself real harm or not," Anne told her. "It wouldn't be worth it if you made yourself really ill, would it?" "Yes, I think it would." Those bright eyes were eager and challenging - more the eyes of a girl than those of a woman with a grown-up son. "Sometimes I think it would be worth while to have real life again for a week and then - just snuff out." "But you only think that sometimes," Anne reminded her, smiling to hide the fact that her heart ached suddenly for this eager, impatient creature, so cruelly reduced to inactivity. "You would probably think quite differently as soon as the harm was done." "Don't talk like Murray," Mrs. Farraday retorted impatiently. And then, as Anne remained silent, "You don't really think someone else should make all one's most important decisions, do you?"

"Why, no, of course not," Anne said. "But what sort of decisions do you mean, Mrs. Farraday?" "What to do with one's own life, of course. If I choose to have a short, gay time, rather than years of boredom, isn't that primarily my own business ?'' "Primarily - yes. But not solely," Anne said cautiously, feeling that they were getting into rather deep waters. "I don't agree." "But, Mrs. Farraday, no one in this life can - or should - make a decision solely on how it affects themselves." Anne spoke earnestly. "You don't really think that, do you?" Mrs. Farraday was silent. "Suppose you did do something very unwise and made yourself very ill, for instance, it would mean great pain and anxiety for your husband and your son." "I shouldn't care a bit," Mrs. Farraday said distinctly, and she smiled quite enchantingly at Anne. "Now tell me something about yourself. You said you had a very pretty mother and elder sister. Tell me about them, and the rest of your family - if you have any." Anne was a good deal taken aback, both at Mrs. Farraday's smiling indifference to any pain she might cause her husband and son, and also at the speed and suddenness with which the whole subject was changed. However, since Mrs. Farraday was obviously waiting to be entertained by the affairs of someone other than herself, Anne smilingly obliged her by giving as entertaining an account as she could of the Brendall family.

"I like the sound of Pansy," Mrs. Farraday said presently. She had picked up her embroidery once more, and was stitching away calmly, as though her previous outburst of impatience were completely forgotten. "You must bring her to see me one day." "She would love to come, I'm sure." Anne smiled. "Pre- haps one day in the holidays—" "Aren't they still a good way away?" "Only about a month," Anne said. Mrs. Farraday looked a little as though she were not used to waiting even a month for anything she wanted. "How old are you?" she inquired suddenly. "Twenty-one." "So?" Anne was subjected to a rapid scrutiny from those bright, dark eyes. "You look younger. In some ways," she added, as though Anne's innate air of responsibility had suddenly impinged upon her consciousness. "But you're not engaged, are you? I noticed you were not wearing a ring when Murray brought you home the other afternoon." "Well, I have - become engaged - since then." Anne admitted, and a little diffidently she spread out the fingers of her left hand, so that Mrs. Farraday could see her ring. "What! during the week-end?" Mrs. Farraday seemed both amused and annoyed. "Yes." "How silly and tiresome of you. You won't want to run off and get married in a few weeks' time, I hope?"

"Oh, no. It will have to be a fairly long engagement," Anne explained. "My family will need me for some time." "Need you? Why should they need you?" Mrs. Farraday wanted to know. "You aren't even the eldest, and there's your mother there in any case." "Yes, but - Well, you see, I'm the one who has always been at home," Anne said slowly. "My uncle, who used to take the final responsibility for everything, died quite recently and it's very necessary that there should be someone - someone stable to hold things together until we get accustomed to a new way of life." "Smooth over the rough edges of the change, you mean?" suggested Mrs. Farraday shrewdly. "Something like that." "And what does the young man in the case say to that?" Mrs. Farraday gave a speculative, faintly cynical glance at Anne. "Gregory? Oh, he - he rather wanted us to get married right away. But he does realize that the family have certain claims," Anne explained earnestly. "Very broad-minded of him," commented Mrs. Farraday dryly. Anne flushed slightly. "Do you mean that you think I'm being unfair to him?" she asked. Mrs. Farraday seemed amused at that. "Unfair? Oh, no. Unwise." "Oh." Anne looked startled. "Why?"

"My dear," Mrs. Farraday said, "it never hurts to keep a man dangling, on the assumption that you're interested in another man. But it's taking a great risk to keep him waiting on the interests of a family. A family isn't something he can even be jealous about. It's just there - in the way. There's nothing about it to stimulate any of the more interesting emotions. It's very worthy, of course, but it makes limitless demands - yours sounds just as though it will - and it can't ever be given its conge. A rival suitor is so much more stimulating, and can always be got rid of at any moment. You think that over." Anne bit her lip and regarded her employer doubtfully. She was not at all sure how seriously this was meant - or whether Mrs. Farraday were just being maliciously amusing. But, before she could decide this point, her employer switched back to the subject of her correspondence, and sent Anne to fetch her cheque-book. "Fill in the cheques for the payment of those three bills," she directed. "And then I'll sign them while you write the envelopes." Anne's head was bent over this task when Murray Farraday came in. He kissed his mother and greeted Anne, who noticed that Mrs. Farraday was much more cordial to him than she had been before. A little to her surprise, he responded immediately, and stood beside her sofa, smiling down at her with something almost like tenderness. "Do you know what our absurd little Miss Brendall has done over the week-end?" Mrs. Farraday exclaimed suddenly, at which Anne felt her colour rise. "No," Murray Farraday seemed rather surprised at the idea that Miss Brendall was either absurd or theirs.

"She got engaged." "Indeed?" He looked as though he could' hardly be less interested. "I've told her we don't think much of marriage in this household," Mrs. Farraday said - with a trace of malice, Anne could not help thinking. "I hope she understands that you have no authority to speak for anyone but yourself in that," he replied with a slight smile. Feeling bound to take some part in the conversation at this point, Anne looked up. "I'm beginning to know when Mrs. Farraday is serious and when she isn't," she said with more smiling ease than she felt. "Nonsense. No one knows that," declared Mrs. Farraday. "I'm not sure that I always know myself." And then, to her son - "But it doesn't matter, Murray. She isn't going to be married for ages because she's too conscientious about her family. She has some idea that they can't manage without her, which is quite absurd, of course, but suits me admirably." "Well, I'm glad we are not to lose you as soon as we've secured you, Miss Brendall," he said politely. But Anne had the impression that he found the discussion of her private affairs less than interesting, and she thought she could hardly blame him. At that moment, the attention of all of them was taken by something much more demanding. The sound of a car driving up outside was followed almost immediately by a loud, imperious voice in the hall, calling to one of the servants. "Your father's home," remarked Mrs. Farraday to her son, as though she took no responsibility for him and he had nothing to do with her.

"Let's hope he got some good golf while he was away, or there'll be no peace." So far as Anne could tell, there was no answer to that, and, a moment later, into the room came a tall, heavily built man of about sixty. He was wearing exceedingly well-cut tweeds, and had a curious likeness to Murray, except that everything about him was on a heavier, coarser scale. The height, the keen, rather disillusioned blue eyes, the authoritative manner, were the same. Only in Murray there was a certain fining down of features and build which he probably owed to some inherited grace from his mother. " 'Lo, Sonia." The elder Farraday bent and kissed his wife, but a good deal more brusquely than Murray did. Then he nodded to his son and said, "How are things?" Mrs. Farraday had turned a cool cheek to receive his kiss, and only said, "Hallo, Bob," as a sort of afterthought. At the same time, Murray said: "Everything's going all right. The Cunningham contract went through." "It did? - Piece of luck for you, wasn't it?" "No." A quick smile came and went on Murray's face. "A piece of good management by me. - Miss Brendall, this is my father." Anne received a quick, comprehensive stare, and then Mr. Farraday said: "This isn't the Brendall girl I know, it is ?"

"No. This Miss Brendall is my secretary's sister," Murray explained. And Anne felt almost passionately grateful to him for not referring to Sara as his ex-secretary. She thought she would not have relished the elder Farraday's inquiries into that matter. "Miss Brendall has come to be my secretary-companion," Mrs. Farraday remarked, searching for something in her work- basket. "What do you want a secretary-companion for?" Her husband grinned at her, and actually committed the indiscretion of pinching her ear. "As the term implies - to supply me with some agreeable company, and to perform any secretarial duties I require," retorted Mrs. Farraday coolly. But she moved her head sharply, and with such palpable resentment, that Anne thought: "Why, he must have been married to her thirty years - and yet he hasn't learned that she detests that sort of liberty!" "Did you get any golf, Father?" Murray inquired. And, if Anne had not been sure that he was too insensitive to have noticed anything and too uncaring to make a tactful diversion she would have thought he did that on purpose, to distract his father's attention from Mrs. Farraday's annoyance. "Yes, I did, as a matter of fact." The elder Farraday turned to his son almost genially. "That's a splendid course at Arrowdale. You ought to run up there some week-end." "Yes, I will." "Bob" - Mrs. Farraday was still looking in her work-basket -"before you go up to change, have a word with Dawson about what's to be

done with the two oldest plum trees. You'll find him somewhere in the garden still." "Tomorrow will do," her husband objected. "No. He's getting quite tiresome about them, and wanted me to make some decision this morning." Grumbling a little, the elder Farraday moved towards the french windows. "Go with him, Murray, and see that something really is settled." Mrs. Farraday made an imperious little movement of her head, at which her son slightly raised his eyebrows. But - though with a perceptible tightening of his lips - he went with his father. Not until their footsteps ceased to sound on the terrace flags, and the sudden deadening of them showed that the two men had reached the lawn, did Mrs. Farraday turn and look at Anne. And then she said, quietly and urgently: "Quick, Miss Brendall - what did I do with that letter? I don't seem able to find it." "The-the letter?" "Yes, yes. There was only one. The others were just bills and things." "I think you just put it down beside you." "No, I couldn't have been so silly." Mrs. Farraday sounded impatient, but there was nothing strange about that. What was extraordinary, and to Anne quite inexplicable, was that she sounded a very frightened woman.

CHAPTER FIVE ANNE quietly went through the few places in which the letter might he. Having failed to find the letter in the more probable places, she considered the more unlikely possibilities. "See if it's slipped down the side of the sofa, between the loose cushion and—" "I've got it!" exclaimed Mrs. Farraday with relieved triumph, and produced the missing letter from the place Anne suggested. "Thank goodness!" And, raising the lid of her work basket, she thrust the letter safely underneath the tray which held her multi-coloured embroidery silks. "That was clever of you. What made you think of it?" "Pansy is inclined to lose things," Anne explained mildly. "I'm used to finding exercise books a minute and a half before she's due to leave for school, while she dances about, frantically declaring that no one has ever been known to lose such a book before and that it will be quite impossible for her to continue her school career without it." Mrs. Farraday laughed. "Meaning that Pansy and I display a similar lack of self-control?" she suggested, a little sharply. Anne smiled at her, more indulgently than she knew "The loser is always entitled to a certain amount of agitation," .she declared. "It's so much easier to be the superior assistant, with no great personal stake in the search." Mrs. Farraday gave her an odd glance, as though she were not quite sure that Anne's remark didn't mean more than it actually said.

"I wasn't really upset," she said rather quickly. "It's just that - I hate losing anything." "Of course," agreed Anne. After all, it was no business of hers if the obvious cause of Mrs. Farraday's agitation had been, not that she had lost the letter, but that her husband or son might find it. "Though why, I can't imagine," thought Anne. "Neither of them looks the kind to read other people's letters. And in any case, I was given to understand that it was simply a pressing invitation from a woman friend." Anne dismissed the matter as one of the minor mysteries of her new job, however, and asked Mrs. Farraday if there were anything else she would like her to do. "No, thank you, my dear." Her employer was in high good humour after the recovery of the letter. "You'd better go on home now." She glanced at the clock, and then exclaimed with real concern: "Oh, I am sorry! I kept you too long, looking for that wretched letter. I've made you miss your bus." "It doesn't matter," Anne said. "Oh, but it does! There's an hour's interval after that wretched fivethirty bus!" exclaimed Mrs. Farraday vexedly. "Well, Murray will have to run you home in the car, that's all." "No, really, there isn't any need." Anne was a good deal disturbed at the idea of Murray being pressed into service as chauffeur for her. But, as the two men returned from the garden just then, Mrs. Farraday took the matter out of her hands.

"Murray, I'm so sorry! I've made Miss Brendall miss her bus. Could you just run her down in the car?" "Of course." He spoke politely and without hesitation, but Anne thought that, after a tiring day, he must find this suggestion exasperating beyond expression. "I could walk down to the crossroads—" she began. But it was he who said, "Certainly not. It won't take ten minutes to run you home." So that there was nothing to do but accept gracefully and express her thanks. Mrs. Farraday bade her a very friendly good-bye, and even the elder Farraday nodded to her quite cordially as she went out of the room with Murray. "Let me see - you live out on the Carberry Road, don't you?" Murray said, as he got in beside her and started the car. "Yes. The big square house just beyond the church. It's called Barrowmead." "I think I know it. I'll cut across on the left here, instead of going through the town. It won't take long." "It's really very kind of you to turn out again," Anne said with sincerity. "Have you had a very busy day?" "A hell of a day," he told her, but quite good-humouredly, and, glancing at him, Anne decided that he had an attractive, generous mouth when he allowed its grim line to relax. "But I don't mind a

little drive like this. It's nothing," he said, and she saw that he meant it. There was a short silence. Then he said, as though he were really interested: "How did the first day go?" "From my point of view - very well," Anne told him. And then, with simple candour, "I like Mrs. Farraday." He looked amused. "Just like that?" "How do you mean?" "Well, my mother is rather a complex person. I just wondered how you arrived at such a simple and comprehensive opinion." "Oh—" Anne laughed. "It was only a first impression, of course. But I think first impressions are often right, don't you?" "I naturally agree that in this case they were," he said. "But as a general rule? - Yes, perhaps you're right. At least, I almost always know immediately whether or not I'm going to trust someone." "Y-yes," Anne said, and then was silent. For it had suddenly come over her that this was a point on which she was not sure of Mrs. Farraday. Like her - yes, for her charm, her sudden roguishness, her quick flashes of humour. But - trust her? That was a different matter. Sometimes the most utterly charming people must not be trusted too far. If Murray noticed the point at which she suddenly fell silent, he made no remark upon it. Instead, he said, entirely without rancour:

"So your sister got a new job without difficulty ?" Anne glanced at him quickly. "How did you know?" "Why, Birchingtons applied to me for a reference, of course." "Oh, yes, of course." Anne looked faintly disturbed. "Did you - did you give her a good one?" "Certainly. She's an excellent secretary, you know." "Yes, I know, but—" Anne hesitated. "Did you mention that she she's rather rude sometimes?" "Oh, no. She may not be rude at Birchingtons. Possibly she was only rude to me because we were temperamentally unsuited," he said dryly. Anne laughed and bit her lip. "That sounds rather like an American divorce. But it was generous of you, Mr. Farraday." "What was?" "Well, I suppose I meant - it was generous of you not to bear any malice." "Good lord, why should I?" He looked genuinely amused. "Any two people of high temper can have a row. The point is that you can't afford to have too many rows in any office. That was why she had to go. But that doesn't prevent my knowing that your sister is an attractive girl, and really rather a nice one - in a self-centred way."

Anne gasped slightly at hearing Sara judicially dissected in this ruthless but quite unmalicious manner. But she was glad that he had no really bad feeling against her sister. "I think Sara feels the same about you," she said at last. "What? - that I'm rather nice but self-centred?" "Oh, no, I didn't mean that! I meant that she hasn't any real resentment about what happened. In fact, she said—" But Anne stopped suddenly, thinking that frankness had probably gone far enough and that it would be better not to repeat what Sara had said. He gave her a quizzical glance. "Yes - what did she say? I've always heard that a man is no hero to his secretary. Perhaps a candid opinion might be salutary." Anne hesitated still. But the realization that Barrowmead was in sight, and the journey almost at an end, gave her courage. "Well, she said you had a violent temper, but that you didn't nag and you weren't malicious," she explained diffidently. "To which you replied—?" "I beg your pardon!" "I just wondered what your comment was on that." "Oh, I - I think I said something about that sounding more like overstrained nerves than ill-temper," Anne said, startled into quoting her exact recollection.

Then she blushed and felt slightly foolish, and was glad to be able to say, "This is the house, Mr. Farraday." He drew the car to a standstill and leaned across her to open the door. Then he turned his head for a moment to smile at her, and she thought how attractive he was close to, like that - only that he should not have those tiny lines of weariness or worry or whatever it was round his eyes. "Thank you for your charitable interpretation, Miss Brendall," he said with a little laugh, as he gave her his hand. Anne's fingers closed quickly round his with a movement that was instinctively friendly. Then she got out of the car, and, because he had been so nice to her, she stood on the pavement and waved her hand to him as he drove away. She thought he was a trifle surprised, as well as amused, at the attention, but he raised his hand in an unmistakable gesture of friendliness as he drove off. Then Anne turned towards the door, and saw, with an unaccountable little sense of shock, that Gregory was standing there, waiting to be admitted, and that he had toned and watched the scene in the car and the very friendly good-bye she had exchanged with Murray Farraday. "Oh, Gregory—" She ran up the steps to him and kissed him. "How nice! I didn't know you were coming round so early. I - didn't notice you for the moment." He returned her kiss affectionately, but said, with obvious traces of annoyance: "Does Farraday propose to bring you home every evening?"

"Gregory, no! Of course not." She fumbled in her handbag for her key. "It was just that I missed my five-thirty bus, and he very kindly drove me down, so that I shouldn't have to wait another hour. You ought to be pleased about it. It saved you an hour's wait too." She smiled up at him as they went indoors, and he rather reluctantly allowed himself to be thus argued out of his momentary annoyance. "All right. Only I don't want him running my girl around in his confounded Rolls," Gregory grumbled, half seriously. "Gregory, don't be silly," Anne said with a laugh. But, as she took off her hat and ran her hand through her hair, she thought: "Oh, dear, why do people sometimes make trouble out of absolutely nothing?" Then, because that smacked faintly of disloyalty to Gregory, she linked her arm affectionately in his, and they went into the sittingroom together. "Have you both had your tea?" inquired Pansy. "Because if not, I'll get some for you," she added virtuously. Both thanked her and said they had already had tea. And then everyone wanted to hear Anne's impressions of her first day. Without difficulty, she described what she had seen of the house, and how Mrs. Farraday looked, and the few duties she had had to perform. But, at the end, she realized that the essential, interesting character of the Farraday household had not emerged from her description at all.

"But perhaps that's just as well," thought Anne, aware that her own impression was made up of a hundred little details and observations, and that quite a number of these were best not discussed with anyone else. Only she was sorry that she had conveyed so very little of her own intense interest, because Sara said sympathetically: "I hope you won't find it all too boring." "Boring!" exclaimed Anne. "I'm simply fascinated." At which the family looked a good deal surprised, and Gregory a trifle glum. "It doesn't seem much to have to do for twenty pounds a week, anyway," Pansy remarked enviously. "Companions' jobs very seldom are exacting. What you're paid for is to let someone else live on your good spirits and energy," declared Sara cynically. "I wouldn't a bit mind someone living on my good spirits and energy for twenty pounds a week," insisted Pansy. "I wish I could get a job as companion." The others laughed derisively, but Anne said: "Mrs. Farraday asked me to bring you up to see her one day in the holidays." "Me!" Pansy was indescribably gratified. "But how does she know about me?" "I told her about you, of course." Anne smiled and pinched Pansy's cheek. And, as she did so, she had a very distinct recollection of Mr. Farraday pinching his wife's ear, and her detesting it.

After that, Anne - thankful that she had done all the preparing of a cold supper that morning - was able to give her time and attention to Gregory, and they sat in the garden and talked happily of the future. Her first day, Anne found, was not at all a bad sample of the days that were to follow. By getting up rather earlier than usual, and organizing her morning even more ruthlessly than before, she was able to get through most of the householdwork. If there was not always time to do more than snatch a light, hurried lunch before running to catch her bus, at least there was no one to protest about that, except Mrs. Brendall, who contented herself with saying occasionally: "Darling, you shouldn't always leave things until the last minute. Give yourself a margin. I always do." At Benham Lodge, Anne might find Mrs. Farraday in any one of a dozen different moods, varying from extreme depression to charming and endearing gaiety. But, in all of them, she remained the employer of whom Anne found herself becoming increasingly fond, and for whom she always felt a quick, tender pity. As she came to know her better, Anne realized that Mrs. Farraday must have been a woman of unbounded vitality and energy before this accident happened to her. She spoke so easily of long seasons in London, when she pursued a demanding (and Anne thought surely fatiguing) round of gaiety, dancing until the dawn and never missing any event of interest or novelty. Then back to the country, to take a large part in running the estate, while her husband was absorbed in his business and her son at college.

Then it was that she used to indulge to the full in the riding which she loved so much. She could outride most men in the district, and Anne always thought it was sadly ironical that the thing she loved best in the world had been the means of depriving her of the hope of ever being active again. If she were impatient, or moody, or inexplicably secretive - and she was all of these from time to time - Anne always tried to remember the strain and the weight of frustration under which she must live. And then it was not difficult to be patient with her, and to devote every effort to restoring her naturally gay spirits. After that first afternoon, she always caught her five-thirty bus, because Mrs. Farraday saw to it that she did. But then began what Anne often thought was the most tiring part of the day. It was not always possible to do all the evening's work in advance, in the morning. And though, theoretically, it was agreed that, now Anne too went out to work, preparations for the evening meal should be divided, in actual practice the division remained exceedingly onesided. Sara, as often as not, went out in the evening, and, even if she were at home, she almost always seemed to have urgent jobs of mending or washing or ironing, while Mrs. Brendall always seemed blissfully unaware that there was anything to be done. Anne would not have minded any of this if it had not been for Gregory. Gregory, who had developed the habit of dropping in most evenings and, not unnaturally, expecting to have his fiancee's company or take her out with him. He was not exacting, and, being a generous-hearted and useful fellow, was not at all averse of doing occasional odd jobs for Anne, if he could not have her company anywhere but in the kitchen. But there was a point beyond which this

kind of companionship palled, and, quite understandably, he wanted to make other arrangements. "Surely, Anne, it's quite simple just to say you're going out with me and they can shift for themselves," he objected. "Yes, of course. But I do that sometimes." "Not very often," he insisted. Anne smiled placatingly. "I'm sorry, darling. I'll arrange things better. And certainly I will manage to come out with you tomorrow. That's a promise." And, by dint of some reorganizing, which finally reduced her lunchtime to ten minutes, she contrived to keep her promise the next day, and enjoyed her evening with Gregory. Only sometimes she felt rather like a piece of elastic which was being constantly stretched to its full length. During the first week in August, Mrs. Farraday made some reference to the fact that she looked pale, and wanted to know if she found the heat trying. But, on being assured by Anne that she was perfectly well, she turned to a more interesting subject. "Isn't it time that little sister of yours had her holidays? I thought you were going to bring her up to see me." Mrs. Farraday's smile, though tinged with graciousness, was genuinely interested. "Her school broke up last week, Mrs. Farraday," Anne said. "If you would like me to bring her one afternoon, no one will be better pleased than Pansy." "Very well. Bring her tomorrow," Mrs. Farraday said.

And the next afternoon, an unnaturally subdued but excited Pansy accompanied Anne to Benham Lodge. Mrs. Farraday held her hand and smiled at her. "You are just as your sister described you," she said. "I'm so glad to see you at last." This made Pansy feel delightfully important, and she was just about to ask exactly how Anne had described her, when something outside in the garden completely distracted her attention. "Why is that man shouting into that tree?" she inquired briskly. At which Mrs. Farraday rather surprisedly turned her head and glanced across the terrace and into the garden. "Oh, that's my husband," she said without interest. "He's probably trying to persuade the cat to come out of the tree. It's always getting up there and then being too frightened to come down." "Well, he'll never get it down that way," declared Pansy with the air of an expert. "He's going about it quite the wrong way. D'you mind if I go and tell him so?" "Not in the least," said Mrs. Farraday, ignoring Anne's movement of protest. "I should love to have someone tell my husband that, though he won't believe you." "We'll see." With the light of battle gleaming in her eyes, Pansy stepped out on to the terrace and ran down the steps into the garden. "I say," she said, kindly but firmly, appearing at Mr. Farraday's elbow, "that's not the way to speak to a cat, you know. That's the way to speak to a bull-terrier."

"Eh?" He glanced round in astonishment. "I was just telling you that you'll never get a cat to obey you by shouting at it," Pansy amplified. "Dogs like it. They think it shows you have a strong character. But cats only despise you for it, and think you have no self-control." "Is that so?" Mr. Farraday regarded her with grim incredulity. "And who are you ?" "I'm Pansy Brendall. The sister of your wife's secretary- companion." While Mr. Farraday was busy disentangling this, Pansy gazed interestedly into the tree. "Shall I get the cat down for you?" she inquired helpfully. "If you think you can," he said ironically. But this was wasted on Pansy, who had served her apprenticeship with Fernando. "Of course I can," she said with a laugh. She swung herself expertly into the lowest branches of the tree. "What's this cat called?" she inquired over her shoulder. "I have no idea." Mr. Farraday sounded astonished that anyone should wish to know a cat's name. "Great Scott!" said Pansy pityingly, and sounded astonished that anyone should have a cat and not know its name. At first the frightened cat retreated backwards farther up the tree, spitting occasionally and mewing indignantly. But, as Pansy proceeded to address it by various terms of endearment, in a coaxing voice pitched hardly above a whisper, it ceased its retreat and let out one plaintive mew of self-pity. Then it advanced and sniffed at

Pansy's hand. She allowed it to do so for a few moments, then rubbed it gently under its chin and down the side of its neck until, intoxicated by the delicious rhythm, the cat presented the top of its head for similar attention. After that, it was simple for Pansy to hitch herself a little farther up the tree, grab the cat with expert firmness, tuck him under her arm, and slide down to earth again. "There you are!" Pansy gently set down the cat, which wrapped itself round her ankles ecstatically for a moment, and then rushed off on affairs of its own, as Mr. Farraday approached once more. "That's the way to do it," Pansy explained kindly. "So I see." Mr. Farraday's eyes twinkled. "What did you say your name was?" "Pansy." "Good lord!" "Yes, I know. But I can't help it," Pansy said. "Shall we go in now?" "Unless you would like to come down with me and see the horses first." Pansy had no idea what an unusual overture of friendliness this was on Mr. Farraday's part, but her face lit up at the prospect. "Gosh, yes! I'd love that!" she exclaimed. And, watching from the window, Anne and Mrs. Farraday saw Pansy and her chastened host go off together in apparently complete amity.

"Clever little girl," commented Mrs. Farraday. "She's very good with animals," Anne agreed. Her employer looked a good deal amused. "She is also very good with my husband," she remarked dryly. "I don't know anyone else who could tell him he was wrong, and then go off on excellent terms with him." "Pansy has a technique all her own," Anne admitted, and laughed. "So have you." Mrs. Farraday glanced at her quickly, as though she were anxious to see what effect that remark might have on Anne. Anne smiled slightly. "Have I?" "Yes. You've convinced Murray that you're a very reliable and responsible sort of girl. I think - " she picked up her embroidery and began to stitch with nervous attention - "I think he'd pay a good deal of attention to anything you said." "Do you, Mrs. Farraday?" Anne was genuinely surprised. "I don't really think he knows enough about me to feel like that." "Yes, he does. He thinks you're very good for me, for one thing." Anne smiled again and said, "Well, I hope I am." "You understand me better than most people," Mrs. Farraday told her suddenly. "You understand about my still wanting to do things, instead of just staying in this beautiful, deadly place and sewing and stagnating. Anne, I want you to talk to Murray for me, and persuade him to let me go to London for a while."

Anne opened her eyes wide. "But, Mrs. Farraday," she said gently, "you're a perfectly free agent. If you were absolutely determined to go to London, neither your husband nor your son could - or, I suppose, would - stop you." "Oh, but there would be endless objections and trouble. You don't know what they can both be like. What I want you to do is to tell Murray, as though it were your own idea - as though you'd arrived at that conclusion from your own observation - that you think it would be good for me to have a change. Will you do that for me? Anne, will you please do it? It's more important than you can know." Anne was silent for a moment. She was taken aback by this sudden appeal, and some uneasy instinct told her that she was being used in some way. "Mrs. Farraday," she said doubtfully at last, "why do you think the arguments would come better from me than from you yourself?" "Because - I tell you - Murray thinks your judgment is good. And what he thinks to-day, my husband thinks tomorrow. Do tell him that what I need is some relaxation in London." "But I'm not quite sure it is!" "Of course you are!" Mrs. Farraday sounded impatient. "It simply is not good for me to be marooned here, doing nothing. You have appreciated that from the very beginning." Anne looked at her with a sudden expression of worried pity. "Do you so very much want this break in London?" she said gently. "More than I can say!"

"Then perhaps it is the best thing for you," murmured Anne, half to herself. "If you could be trusted not to overdo things, completely, that is." "Oh, I should be careful. I'm not a fool!" Mrs. Farraday exclaimed impatiently. "Just a little bit - where your own good is concerned," Anne told her with a smile, and wondered why she looked slightly startled at that. Annoyed she might have been, but - why startled? "Well, I'll speak to Mr. Farraday, if you think it will do any good, and I'll make the best story I can." "Just a little bit - where your own good is concerned," Anne said. "And don't say that I asked you to do so, will you?" Mrs. Farraday spoke sharply. "Very well," Anne said - reluctantly, because she disliked the faint air of conspiracy about all this. "I won't actually volunteer the information that you asked me. But, if he inquires point-blank whether you prompted me, then you mustn't expect me to lie about it." "No," Mrs. Farraday told her a little scornfully, "I won't expect you to lie about it - knowing the type you are." But she smiled at Anne in away which made that more teasing than serious. At least, Anne was almost sure it did. And then Pansy and Mr. Farraday came back - in very friendly conversation about horses in general, and the Farraday horses in particular - and tea was brought in.

"I'm sorry I rushed off like that and deserted you," Pansy apologized to Mrs. Farraday, "but after I'd got the cat down, Mr. Farraday kindly offered to take me to the stables, and I couldn't resist that." "I'm sure you couldn't." Mrs. Farraday, who could be very sweet when she liked, smiled indulgently at Pansy. "That's a lovely chestnut in the second box," Pansy remarked in a congratulatory tone. "Is it? I haven't been down there since my husband bought him." "Haven't you? Oh, do come and see him after tea," Pansy urged encouragingly, while Anne caught her breath in sudden dismay and vexation. She knew that no one nowadays even mentioned the horses to Mrs. Farraday, much less suggested that she should go down to the stables to see them. There was an odd little silence, during which even the not very sensitive Mr. Farraday looked disturbed. Then Mrs. Farraday said: "All right, Pansy, I think I will." "Sonia!" There was no mistaking the relief and pleasure on her husband's face. "Will you really?" "Yes. I think it would make a nice break. It must be nearly a year since I was down there." No one added any more to that, but Anne saw Mr. Farraday glance at Pansy with astonished respect. If her capture of the cat impressed him, her success with his wife dumbfounded him. Tea was a very pleasant meal after that, and everyone secretly felt that Pansy had well earned the astonishing number of cakes she managed to put away.

"Are you coming with us?" Mrs. Farraday asked Anne, as she and her husband prepared to visit their own stables, under Pansy's guidance. "No. If you don't mind, I'll finish, those letters we left yesterday. And then you can sign them when you come back," Anne said. And, with a little nod to her, Mrs. Farraday took her husband's arm and went out on to the terrace, Pansy skipping up and down delightedly, as she accompanied them. When the sound of their voices had died away, Anne settled down to her work. But she had not got very far before she heard the sound of a car drawing up outside, and a few minutes later Murray came into the room. "Hallo." He glanced round in some surprise. "Where is my mother?" Anne explained about her going down to see the horses, at which he exclaimed with astonished approval: "Who on earth induced her to do that?" "Well, I think my young sister Pansy had a good deal to do with it," Anne said with a smile, and briefly recounted what had taken place. Murray threw himself into an armchair, crossed one leg over the other, and listened with amused attention. "As a family, you certainly seem to be good for Mother," he remarked, leaning back and looking more relaxed than he usually did. It struck Anne that here was as good an opportunity as any for broaching the subject Mrs. Farraday wanted mentioned. And so, pushing away her writing-pad, she turned to him and spoke with an air of decision.

"Then I hope you won't mind if I speak frankly about her, Mr. Farraday. Your mother is living much too dull and inactive a life. It isn't good for her to be so bored and restricted." She had expected a certain amount of annoyed reaction to this, or, at any rate, argument. But, instead, he looked rather troubled, and said doubtfully: "But she has very little physical strength, you know. And what she has she taxes cruelly, if she is given any chance." "Yes, I know there is that risk," Anne admitted. "But there is a point at which physical well-being ceases to be the first - or, at any rate, the only - consideration. You'll never do anything with her while she's so fiercely bored and - and resentful." "You may be right, of course." He rubbed his hand over his eyes a little wearily, Anne thought, as though this rather minor domestic problem presented far more difficulties than the big decisions which he had to make in connection with his business. "What would you suggest, then, Miss Brendall?" "Don't you think you might allow - I mean, suggest - that she goes to London for a few weeks? She could probably see a good many of her friends without having to go about too much. I think it's worth the experiment, if only for two or three weeks." Anne made the suggestion rather diffidently, uncomfortably aware that she was, at that moment, being very much the instrument of Mrs. Farraday's wishes. Still, she did, broadly speaking, subscribe to the view she was expressing, and her tone carried conviction. He watched her all the time that she was speaking, and, as she bravely withstood that hard, speculative stare, she realized that she was in a less co-operative mood than earlier in the conversation and

was, in fact, singularly like that Murray Farraday she had first tackled on that evening at the Water Mill. "If only he doesn't ask whether she prompted me to do this!" thought Anne uneasily. "Well, you certainly carried out my mother's instructions well," he observed, at that point. And Anne realized with a shock that he did not even need to ask the question before he jumped to the right conclusion. "At the same time—" "Mr. Farraday," Anne interrupted sharply, all her views crystallized by his easy assumption that she was nothing but a tool, "please don't suppose I'm advocating something which I don't myself think worth trying. Naturally I've heard Mrs. Farraday say more than once that this is what she wants, and I'm inclined to think she is right. Why not consider it?" "I am considering it," he said, so curtly that Anne was silenced. She watched him, and presently he got up and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, strolled to the window and back again. Then he came to a stop immediately in front of her and stood looking down at her. "Miss Brendall, my father and I are a good deal against my mother going to London for reasons other than health reasons," he said picking his words rather carefully, Anne thought. "At the same time, even members of a family can't interfere with each other beyond a certain point, and of course she can make the final decision for herself. Perhaps we've traded too much on the legitimate health objections, because they coincided with our personal bias - I don't know. But anyway, please believe that we always meant to act for her own good."

"I'm sure you did," said Anne warmly, and refrained from saying what a number of mistakes had been made at various times in the interests of other people's good. "Of course, I don't pretend to be judging from anything but the knowledge in my own possession," she added earnestly. "I've told you what I honestly think, going by what I know. It's naturally for you and Mr. Farraday to decide what you think is best." "Naturally," he agreed, almost absently, and appeared to be considering something rather deeply. Then he raised his head and looked at her in that penetrating way. "There is one thing - it's quite impossible that she should go with no one to keep her company. I think, Miss Brendall; that my father would be very much more comfortable in his own mind if you went with her." "I?" Anne had never considered such a possibility. "But, Mr. Farraday, I really haven't any authority with her!" "You have a good deal of influence, in a quiet way." Anne blushed, unaccountably pleased at this. "But don't you think - your father - would be a better - choice?" "No," Murray said without elaboration, "I don't." Anne thought of home duties and responsibilities. "I don't think I could manage it," she began doubtfully, though the thought did strike her that this might make a good rehearsal for when the family would have to do without her altogether. "Well, I'm sorry, because I don't think I can recommend the idea to my father unless you do go," stated Murray with sudden and, Anne thought, unreasonable obstinacy.

"Isn't that attaching rather too much importance to my presence?" she suggested, a little dryly. "No. I should very much like to think you were there with my mother. It need not, as you yourself said, be for more than two or three weeks. And of course all expenses would be our concern, and we should naturally expect to take into consideration the fact that you were giving very much more than part- time service." Anne hesitated. "If I could manage it, I'd very much like to do it," she admitted frankly. "But—" "Good!" he said, as though that were settled. And, at the same moment, the others came back into the room from the garden. "I've just been down to see the horses, Murray." Mrs. Farraday sat down in an armchair, instead of returning to her sofa. "It's much too long since I went down there! They were so pleased. Even the new chestnut seemed to think it was a special occasion." "Well, so it was." Murray smiled at her, and Anne thought he was expressing more than a conventional piece of politeness. It was curious how the Farradays could treat each other with almost brutal indifference at times, she thought, and yet at other times be really sweet to each other. "How are you feeling?" Murray stood looking down at his mother, rather indulgently. "Wonderful." She spoke almost defensively. "So don't start saying that I shouldn't have gone." "No, of course not. In fact" - Murray glanced at Anne - "Miss Brendall and I have just been discussing whether it wouldn't be better for you to have a more lively time for a while."

"Oh, you - have, have you?" An extremely alert expression came into her eyes, but she did not allow herself the indulgence of glancing at Anne. "Mustn't overdo things, of course," put in the elder Farraday quickly. "Of course not." His wife flicked a scornful glance in his direction, which made Pansy open her mouth unnecessarily wide, Anne thought. "What were you thinking of, Murray?" She turned back impatiently to her son. "Well, I thought perhaps two or three weeks in London—" "Ah!" said Mrs. Farraday, and this time she did glance at Anne in uncontrollable congratulation. At the same time, Mr. Farraday exclaimed: "London? Oh, Sonia, you always wear yourself out when you go there!" "Yes," Murray agreed. "So suppose you take Miss Brendall with you?" "Miss Brendall!" Again Mr. and Mrs. Farraday spoke simultaneously, and Anne had the odd, but distinct, impression that he said her name with relief and that Mrs. Farraday said it in protest. In fact, Mrs. Farraday added almost immediately: "There's no need to bother Miss Brendall to go." "I think she would enjoy it," replied Murray, completely ignoring the doubts which Anne had expressed. "And Father and I should feel much quieter in our minds about you."

"Yes, yes, it's an excellent idea." Mr. Farraday looked with genuine approval at Anne. Mrs. Farraday bit her lip. She was, Anne knew, suppressing irritated protest with difficulty. At the same time, she had obviously gained such a near victory that it would be absurd to raise too many objections now. And anyway, why should she feel any deep objection? Anne knew that, in her way, her employer was almost fond of her, and certainly they enjoyed each other's company. "It shouldn't be such a penance to take me," she reflected, half amused and half chagrined. It was Pansy who introduced an entirely new note. "Gregory won't like it," she remarked, sucking in her cheeks thoughtfully. "Gregory?" The Farradays all looked inquiring. "My fiancé," Anne explained, laughing and colouring a little, though Pansy's opinion found a very real echo in her own consciousness. "Oh, he'll part with you for a week or two," declared the elder Farraday, with the easy assurance of one who knew Anne very little and Gregory not at all. "Perhaps you ought to consult him first, though," was the smooth suggestion of Mrs. Farraday who, in the ordinary way, seldom consulted any wishes but her own. "Well, talk it over with him, by all means, of course," Murray agreed a little irritably. "But I'm sure he'll make some allowances, if you explain that my mother can't really go without you."

This was the first time the situation had been exactly defined, and Anne knew that there was a flash of real anger in Mrs. Farraday's eyes as she glanced at her son. However, she had made the best of too many situations in the last few years for her to hesitate before the inevitable, and, smiling very sweetly at Anne, she said: "Yes, please explain that to him, my dear." Anne said that she would. And then it was time for her and Pansy to go. Murray said that he would drive them down - an attention which Pansy accepted with pleased alacrity. "Well, come and see us again," Mr. Farraday said to her, almost genially, as he shook hands with her. "If there aren't any cats for you to fetch down out of trees, I'll see if we can't find some other way to make you useful." Pansy gave a deprecating, but flattered, chuckle, and then said goodbye to Mrs. Farraday very kindly. "Don't worry," she admonished her in a friendly way. "I'll talk to Gregory and see that he lets Anne come with you." "Thank you," Mrs. Farraday said gravely. And Murray gave her a not unfriendly pat on the shoulder as he ushered her out to the car. But, as often happened with Pansy's forecasts, optimism rather outran fact. When Anne came to discuss the matter with Gregory, she ran into stiff opposition. To begin with - having forgotten that Pansy's visit to Ben- ham Lodge would probably alter Anne's usual time-table - he had arrived

at his accustomed time, and had already been waiting a good while when Murray Farraday's car deposited them both at the gate. He was not, therefore, in a specially receptive mood when Pansy bounced in ahead of Anne and announced: "We've had a marvellous time, and I rescued the cat and went to see the horses and Mr. Farraday - old Mr. Farraday, that is - said I was to go back and see them, and Anne is to go to London with Mrs. Farraday and have a good time, so perhaps that's when I'll go and see Mr. Farraday again and keep him company." "Oh, Pansy, you talk too much!" exclaimed Anne, feeling that there were more tactful ways than this of breaking the news. But Gregory said at once: "What's this about your going to London?" "Well, they all think it would do Mrs. Farraday good to go for a week or two," Anne explained a trifle nervously. "And they want me to go with her." "What fun for you!" exclaimed Sara good-naturedly, at the same time as Gregory said: "You won't go, will you?" Anne tossed off her coat and sat down. "Gregory, I'd very much like to," she said frankly. "But what will the family do without you?" he inquired with rare irony. "Why, we'll manage," declared Sara, whose selfishness was always of the purely thoughtless, rather than the calculated, variety. "You go, Anne. You'll have a lovely time, I expect."

"Well, I'll - think about it, anyway," Anne said, deciding that it would be better to discuss the matter privately with Gregory rather than deal with his objections in front of the family. He seemed to think so too, because he left the subject for the moment. But, as soon as possible, he drew her out into the garden with him. "Look here, darling, you aren't really taking yourself off to London with Mrs. Farraday, are you?" he said coaxingly. "There's no knowing how long she'll keep you there, once she gets you away. Let them make some other arrangement. There are lots of alternatives they could consider, without making a convenience of you." Anne linked her arm affectionately in his. "I don't think the other two will let her go, though, unless I go with her," she began. But he interrupted her impatiently. "Oh, Anne dear, don't be silly! Mrs. Farraday has money and time and a will of her own. You don't really suppose she has to get the permission of her husband and son before she undertakes some simple journey she wants to make. Why should she?" Anne bit her lip. "No. Theoretically, she needn't consult anyone but herself - that's true. Only somehow there's more to it than that, Gregory. She seems to want to do it more or less with their approval. And they don't seem willing to approve unless I go with her. Murray Farraday as good as said so."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Gregory. "They're simply doing the same as everyone else does with you, darling. They're imposing on your good nature." "Oh, no, Gregory," Anne laughed protestingly. "It isn't imposing on anyone's good nature to offer them a trip to London, with all expenses paid." He rather moodily kicked a stone along the path in front of him. "You mean you'd really like to go, just for the fun of the trip?" "Yes, I should. You don't - mind my wanting to go, do you?" "Not if you find it just as easy to put the family claims aside when next I want you to come with me," Gregory told her a little wryly. "Oh, Gregory!" She was remorseful. "Do you mean you feel I'm giving Mrs. Farraday more consideration than I give you?" "We-ell, you didn't quote the family claims at her, I'll be bound," he said teasingly. "I did start by saying I didn't think I could manage it," Anne told him. "But so much seemed to hang on my going and— Oh, Gregory, am I very inconsiderate to you?" She hugged his arm remorsefully, and he grinned in a mollified way. "Yes, of course you are. You'd probably put even Fernando's claims before mine, just because he belongs to the family," he said. Anne laughed and kissed him. "I wouldn't! It's just that - oh, the day-to-day claims are so difficult to avoid when one is there on the spot and—"

"That's why I want you to marry me, and come away out of all this," he countered quickly. "Well then, let's see how they get on if I leave them for two or three weeks," Anne suggested diplomatically. "After all, maybe I am exaggerating the family dependence on me. If they don't seem to miss me much—" "Oh, Anne, of course they'll miss you!" "Well, I mean - if they get along all right without me, then it will be time to talk about definite wedding plans." Gregory was so pleased with this view that he resigned himself to the London visit with a fairly good grace. And Anne was able to report next day to Mrs. Farraday that she would accompany her. There followed a very busy day for her, telephoning for hotel accommodation, reserving train seats, and making a hundred and one other arrangements which Mrs. Farraday - with miraculously increased energy - directed to be necessary. At home, there was a great deal of family interest in her trip. Pansy studied the daily newspapers (when she should have been attending to holiday tasks) and drew up for Anne a list of things which must, on no account, be missed. Mrs. Brendall became reminiscent about earlier visits of her own to London, and also told Anne what she must be sure to include in her visit. Sara, more practically, inspected Anne's wardrobe, advised authoritatively on what she should take, and, in a moment of unusual generosity, lent Anne not only her new evening dress, but a short fur jacket which was the pride of her heart.

"But, Sara dear, I don't expect I shall need evening things, you know," Anne said, somewhat weighed down by the responsibility of accepting these loans. "Nonsense, of course you will. There'll be occasions when Mrs. Farraday will take you about with her, and there may be a first night at the theatre or something like that. You want to be prepared for everything," Sara insisted. "She is supposed to take things quietly," Anne said doubtfully. But Sara laughed. "She'll do exactly what she wants, once she gets there," was her opinion. "No, you take the dress and the coat, Anne. There's sure to be some occasion for wearing them, and then you'd be mad that you hadn't taken them. Much better have the clothes and wish you had a chance of wearing them, than have the chance and wish you'd brought the clothes." This was true, so Anne accepted the loan with gratitude. Gregory, having once capitulated on the major issue of Anne's actually going, was interested and helpful over every detail. He it was who drove her down to the station on the day of departure, and Anne was able to introduce him to Mrs. Farraday, who smiled at him with her most captivating charm and said how much she appreciated his sparing Anne for a few weeks. "Perhaps you will find time to run up to town for a few days while we're there," she added kindly. "I'm sure Anne would like that, and I shall be able to spare her to enjoy herself in her own way sometimes." Gregory flushed with pleasure, and obviously thought Mrs. Farraday intelligent and understanding in the extreme.

"I'll do my best, Mrs. Farraday. That's a fine idea," he said. And then Murray - who had been superintending the disposal of luggage in the van - joined them, and he too told Gregory that they were "glad Miss Brendall had been able to see her way to accompanying his mother." In fact, everyone was so agreeable to everyone else that Anne thought she might allow herself to enjoy her holiday without any misgivings about the side issues involved. When Gregory kissed her good-bye, he whispered, "Have a good time, darling, and don't worry about anything." Then she took her place in the corner seat opposite Mrs. Farraday, the whistle blew, the train began to move slowly out of the station, and the journey to London and new experiences had begun.

CHAPTER SIX To Anne, who had never before stayed in a luxury hotel, every detail of life during the next few days was novel and fascinating. At the Gloria - that palace of modern hotels - Mrs. Farraday was evidently a well-remembered and highly valued client, and her suite, high up on the top floor, had a beautiful view over the Park, and a general air of luxurious privacy which Anne had not supposed to be possible in hotel life. Her duties were, Anne found during the first few days, hardly more than nominal. Mrs. Farraday - who was undoubtedly gayer and more full of vitality than at any other time since Anne had known her seemed to prefer to use the telephone for communicating with her friends. And all Anne knew of her employer's arrangements beforehand was gathered from snatches of conversation which Mrs. Farraday had with "Nan" or "Beatrice" or "Rosemary", and the few brief entries which she was instructed to make in an engagement book. Sometimes the hired car would whisk Mrs. Farraday off to join one or other of the Nan-Beatrice-Rosemary group. At other times she would take things more quietly, and they would drift in to have tea with her instead. All of them were very bright and sweet to Anne, accepting her at the high valuation which Mrs. Farraday quite obviously put upon her, and although most of them must have been contemporaries of Mrs. Farraday herself, they all had the same air of having successfully stopped time at an unspecified but astonishingly early age, and treated Anne as one of themselves. The most constant visitor was "Nan" - otherwise Mrs. Carter, an exceedingly attractive widow whose discreetly beautiful jewellery

and furs made Anne feel that the late Mr. Carter must have done very handsomely by her when he left her to face the world alone. Practically every day Nan Carter blew in, on a wave of enthusiasm and expensive perfume, and Anne wondered once or twice if it were she who had sent the letter which had initiated this holiday. On the whole, however - and in spite of Mrs. Farraday's glib reference to the writer as "she" - Anne had continued to think that letter was from a man, though why she was never quite sure. On the third or fourth day of their visit, she had unexpected confirmation of this. The telephone bell rang about the middle of the afternoon and Mrs. Farraday called out to Anne from her bedroom: "Answer it for me, dear, will you?" Anne picked up the receiver, and a man's voice - the most attractive, she thought, that she had ever heard - said: "Is Mrs. Farraday there, please?" "I think so. Who shall I say it is?" Anne asked. There was just the faintest hesitation at that. Then the voice said, "Tell her - Colonel Askew." Anne went to the open doorway of the bedroom and gave the message. To her astonishment, Mrs. Farraday ran past her with a hasty, "Run away for a few minutes, will you, darling?" and seized the receiver. Then, before Anne could close the door on what was evidently to be a very private conversation, she heard Mrs. Farraday say in the eager tones of a girl: "Gerald! I made it, you see!"

Vaguely, though inexplicably, troubled, Anne went into the adjoining room and shut the door. There were several disconnected impressions struggling in her mind, and she had an uneasy feeling that if they had as much to do with each other as she instinctively suspected, then there was something wrong somewhere. First there was that letter and Mrs. Farraday's odd behaviour about it, with the implication that she had a very particular reason for wishing to come to London. Then there was Murray's troubled admission that something other than health reasons prompted the opposition of his father and himself. "And now someone with what I can only describe as a fascinating voice rings up," thought Anne, "and Mrs. Farraday greets him with the air of a delighted and successful conspirator - Or am I just being silly?" Later, she decided that she was "just being silly," for, after an innocently short time, Mrs. Farraday came back into the room, displaying nothing more than smiling satisfaction, and remarked with complete frankness: "That was my cousin, Gerald Askew, on leave from Germany. I haven't seen him for nearly three years. I shall be going out with him to-morrow evening, so make whatever arrangements you like, Anne. You'll be quite free." Anne thanked her, with a degree of relief which she felt was absurd, but reminded her that there had been some question of her going to a film premiere with Mrs. Carter. "With Nan?" Mrs. Farraday frowned consideringly, though not, Anne thought, with her mind fully on the question. "Oh no, I'm sure there was nothing definite arranged. There isn't anything in my engagement book, is there?"

"No. But I thought you did discuss it, and decided to go if there was nothing else on." "Yes. But afterwards we dropped the whole thing," Mrs. Farraday insisted. And Anne accepted this. The next evening, when Mrs. Farraday was ready to go out with her cousin, Anne thought she had never seen her look so lovely .and radiant. "I think it was a good idea to arrange this London visit!" she exclaimed impulsively. "You look simply wonderful, Mrs. Farraday. So vivid and bright and - and young." "You delightful child!" Mrs. Farraday, who was not a demonstrative woman, laughed and kissed Anne. "You certainly know how to choose the right form of flattery." "It's not flattery. It's true," Anne said earnestly. "Is it?" Mrs. Farraday glanced at herself in the mirror, laughed slightly again and then sighed. "Well, I suppose we all like to be told we look young, especially when we know we're not, and hope that the man we're going out with won't know it too." Anne reflected that cousins usually knew each other's age within a year or two. But perhaps Mrs. Farraday was speaking figuratively. "You don't look a day over thirty-six tonight," Anne assured her. "I don't? - Well, I'm ten years more than that, child," Mrs. Farraday admitted with unusual frankness. "Let's hope Gerald thinks I look thirty-six too." Anne felt considerable curiosity about the unknown Gerald, whose opinion seemed to matter more than a cousin's opinion should - at

least, more than it would in the Brendall family, where relations were regarded casually. She hoped that he would come upstairs to fetch Mrs. Farraday. But instead he telephoned to say he was waiting in the lounge, and Mrs. Farraday - absently bidding Anne "enjoy her evening" - went down to meet him. When she had gone, Anne tidied one or two things, glanced at the clock, and decided that it was still early enough for her to go to a film. She was just going to her own room to get ready, when there was a light tap on the sitting-room door, and Mrs. Carter came in, with a short mink coat over her black dress, and a general air of being ready to enjoy herself. "Good evening. Is Sonia nearly ready?" she inquired, going straight to the mirror to examine her own reflection with critical appreciation, and slightly altering the position of a diamond spray on her coat. "Mrs. Carter, she's gone out," Anne said, rather taken aback. "I'm sure she thought—" "Oh, but she was coming with me to the premiere of 'Never Today'!" exclaimed Mrs. Carter, turning round from the glass. "That ridiculous Kay Tranton made me take two five-pound tickets because it's for some charity she's interested in, and I knew if I didn't she wouldn't help me with my charity matinee next month. She's that kind. Sonia practically promised she'd come too, just to give me moral courage, because Kay will be at her most tiresome. But where is Sonia?" "She went out with her cousin," Anne explained. "There was some misunderstanding about this film premiere, Mrs. Carter. She did mention it, but she thought—" "What cousin?" inquired Mrs. Carter, who had suddenly reached the point of absorbing what Anne was saying. "She hasn't got any cousin - at least, not in England."

"Well, I think this one had just come home from abroad." Anne said, wishing that the subject had never been opened. "What's his name?" Mrs. Carter wanted to know. And because there was no sense or reason in making a mystery of it, Anne said: "He's a Colonel Askew, I think." "Do you mean to tell me that Gerald Askew's back in London, and Soma's running around with him again?" Nan Carter sat down and regarded Anne with an expression of pleasurable dismay. Anne bit her lip. "I don't think you can call a casual evening engagement with a cousin 'running around,'" she said as dryly as she could. "But Gerald Askew isn't an ordinary cousin, my dear. He isn't even a full cousin, come to that. Second or third or something," Mrs. Carter explained. "Have you seen him? - Is he as handsome as ever?" "I haven't seen him," Anne admitted reluctantly. "I just spoke to him on the phone. He had a very pleasant voice, I thought." "Pleasant! He has a voice that would make an income-tax collector relent. And it isn't only the voice. He has more charm than any man ought to be allowed to have," Nan Carter declared emphatically. "It would be unfair in a woman. But in a man it's fatal. Just absolutely fatal." Anne contemplated the fatality of Gerald Askew's charm in silence. She felt a good deal disturbed by what Mrs. Carter was saying, but was determined not to encourage her evident desire to gossip.

"I wonder if that's why Sonia came to London." Mrs. Carter was quite happy carrying on a conversation with herself if Anne refused to co-operate. "Bob would never have let her come if he'd known. At least, I suppose not. Sonia and Gerald were always silly about each other from the time they were schoolchildren, you know. At least, she was about him, and I think he was as fond of her as that kind of man ever is of one woman," Nan Carter added, for Anne's information. "Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Farraday is my employer," Anne reminded her a little sharply. "I don't think it's my business to know these things, or yours to tell me." "Well, of course, dear, that's very sweet and loyal of you," Nan Carter agreed admiringly. "But you're also a friend of hers, and believe me, this is a case where her friends have got to get together and save her from doing something silly." Anne, who was extremely sceptical about the assistance of wellmeaning friends in one's private affairs, looked a little ironical. "Don't you think Mrs. Farraday is old enough to manage her own affairs?" she suggested dryly. Nan Carter laughed. "Darling child, there are some affairs that none of us are ever old enough to manage," she asserted. "Don't think I'm blaming Sonia. I'm not. Her people should have let her marry Gerald in the beginning, when they were just romantic kids. It was the real thing even then. Though of course he would have made a hopeless husband and Sonia would never have done as a poor man's wife," she added inconsistently. "Still, there it was - Sonia was always fonder of him than of anyone else. Only, of course, she was as poor as she was pretty - and that's saying something, for you can't imagine how lovely

Sonia was at seventeen. And then Bob Farraday came along with all that money of his." Anne, reluctant though she was to gossip about her employer, could not help being intensely interested in this flood of information. It explained so many things - while it disturbed her profoundly. "Do you mean that Mrs. Farraday's parents insisted on her marrying Mr. Farraday, or what?" she asked doubtfully at last. "Oh, nothing as cut and dried as that," Mrs. Carter assured her. "It never is, you know. The day of the really heavy parent was over, even when Sonia and I were girls. Only, of course, they advised her to take him. Any conscientious parent who knew his bank balance would," she added. "And Sonia never despised the good things of this world exactly, and of course Bob was a terrific financial catch for anyone as poor as she was. The Askews never had money, you know. Charm and looks, but never money. Gerald is typical, and so, I suppose, was Sonia." "So she married Mr. Farraday. Was - was Gerald very much upset?" "I shouldn't think so," Nan Carter said unexpectedly, and began to do some running repairs to her make-up. "He isn't the kind to upset himself over the inevitable. Probably he advised Sonia to take Bob." "Advised—? But how extraordinary! I don't understand. If he was in love with her himself—" "Oh, but it was all very romantic and unpractical, dear, don't you see? I mean, there was no future in it. They were both the kind who ought to marry money, and no one knew it better than Gerald. They were no good to each other from a practical point of view." "And did he marry money too?" Anne could not help asking.

"Indeed he did. Lots of it. And I'm sure he was a very sweet husband to her and all that. She died two years later, and then of course we all felt what a pity it was that Sonia hadn't waited. Because there was Gerald, unattached again, with heaps of money for them both. Only by then- Sonia had been married nearly three years to Bob, and had got that horrid little boy of hers as well. It was all so unfortunate." Anne silently considered Mrs. Carter's odd conception of misfortune. Then she said defensively, though rather irrelevantly: "Murray Farraday grew up to be very nice, anyway." "Oh, do you think so?" Nan Carter made a face. "I'm allergic to that kind myself, but of course it takes all sorts to make a world." Anne murmured agreement to this unexceptional generalization. Then, guiltily aware that she was departing somewhat from her previous lofty standard of aloof discretion, she asked: "What happened after that? Did Colonel Askew go abroad at that period, or later on?" "Oh, nothing happened," Mrs. Carter explained with rather telling emphasis. "I mean, Sonia wasn't the kind to throw her cap over the windmill, particularly as she was fond of that boy of hers. Nor was Gerald, come to that. He was doing rather well in the Army by then, and of course he didn't want any scandal either." "So he just hung around and made mischief?" suggested Anne with unusual severity. Nan Carter laughed. "I suppose that about describes it," she admitted. "I think he sounds a cad," Anne said.

"It's extraordinarily difficult for a very attractive man not to be, you know," Nan Carter remarked tolerantly. "Nonsense," retorted Anne. "According to his own horrid lights, he'd been remarkably lucky in his own marriage. He'd inherited a fortune, I gather, in exchange for not more than two years of pretending to be a good husband. Why couldn't he have left the Farradays alone, to work out their own lives, without trying to make trouble? He had definitely rejected life with Sonia - Mrs. Farraday, I mean preferring money instead. He couldn't expect to have things both ways." "Of course, I entirely agree with you myself," said Mrs. Carter, but in a tone which implied that they were both taking up an unusually high moral stand. "But Gerald is a charmer, you know, and—" "I'm sure I should loathe him!" "Oh, no, you wouldn't," Mrs. Carter assured her. "Women always like him." "But men don't?" "We-ell, he's a man's man in the social sense - gets on marvellously with everyone and that sort of thing. But - no, I can't say I've ever known him have an intimate man friend," Mrs. Carter agreed thoughtfully. "But then, of course, he has been abroad so much. I mightn't know." "Oh, he went abroad quite early on?" "Yes. It was really quite fortunate. Bob was beginning to get restive, because he's no fool, you know - though, of course, not much good at handling a woman like Sonia. Then, just as we all thought there was

going to be some sort of explosion, Gerald's regiment was, providentially, ordered to Cyprus. He came home at intervals, and naturally they always saw each other. After all, even second or third cousins do keep in touch. I never could decide how much Bob knew," added Mrs. Carter reflectively. "I suppose he drew his own conclusions at some time or another. Personally, I think it's a pity he doesn't take a broad-minded view of things now and get a quiet divorce." "I don't!" declared Anne with energy. "Don't you?" Mrs. Carter regarded her as though she thought Anne were putting forward a very novel point of view. "Why not?" "Because Mrs. Farraday is his wife and I'm sure that he's always been a good husband to her. If he wasn't her ideal of romance, that isn't his fault. She chose him for other things, and whatever life they've had, they have built together. They have had thirty years of married life and they have a grown-up son. Why should he throw all that away now, just because some - some middle-aged charmer wants to eat his cake and have it too? I think it's worth while making a great deal of effort and sacrifice to maintain the - the dignity and integrity of a marriage that has lasted so long. I don't believe in any marriage being pushed on one side just because this would be nicer or that would be easier," finished Anne, rather hot with her own eloquence, "but particularly I think it's sad and - and undignified when people have been married a long time." Mrs. Carter gazed at her thoughtfully, and finally said: "You know, you'd be awfully good on a platform." Anne naturally felt extremely foolish and deflated at this, and flushed.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to address you like a public meeting," she said a little crossly. "Not at all. I enjoyed it," Mrs. Carter insisted generously. "Suppose you come with me, instead of Sonia, to this film premiere. There's still plenty of time, and I'd like you to come." Anne hesitated for a moment. She had some obscure feeling that she ought to think over what Mrs. Carter had just told her, and not give her attention to anything else until she had decided what she should do - if anything. Then she reflected that there was certainly nothing she could do that evening, even if it were her business to take action at all - which, of course, was doubtful. "I'd love to come," she said. "I won't be long changing." And she ran off to her bedroom, very thankful that Sara had insisted on her borrowing the evening dress and the fur jacket. The latter might not look anything but a modest "poor relation" of Mrs. Carter's mink, but at least it was very pretty and becoming. As she dressed, Anne rapidly reviewed the conversation she had just had with Nan Carter. It would never do, of course, to attach too much importance to anything which depended simply on the unsupported statement of such a featherbrain. But a good deal which Mrs. Carter had said had found a disturbing echo in Anne's own consciousness, and she wished very much that she did not feel so responsible about the whole situation. It was not a responsibility which depended on her position in any way. As Mrs. Farraday's companion, she was certainly not the keeper of Mrs. Farraday's conscience.

In the end she decided that, for the present at least, she could only await events. So she went off to the film premiere with Mrs. Carter, divided between pleasurable excitement and an inner sense of anxiety. To Anne it was an absorbing and amusing experience. Nan Carter seemed to know nearly everyone in the crowded foyer ' and sketchily introduced her to all sorts of people whose names she hardly caught and whose faces she would probably never see again. The film, as it happened, was exceedingly good and Anne became so absorbed in it that she forgot her private anxieties. Not until the lights went up, and the glittering company stood for the National Anthem, did she recall once more what Mrs. Carter had told her and wonder afresh what sort of an evening Mrs. Farraday and her Gerald Askew had passed. "Perhaps," thought Anne hopefully, "she'll find him disappointing, after some years' absence. After all, a charmer can't go on charming for ever. I suppose he's a year or two older than she is. Maybe he's put on weight or something fatal like that. It's all very well for a good husband to put on weight in his middle age," she reflected with amused cynicism, "but I shouldn't think a charmer could afford to." The thought made her chuckle slightly, and Mrs. Carter glanced at her inquiringly. "What's the joke?" she wanted to know. "I was just hoping that Colonel Askew had grown fat," Anne said rather viciously. Mrs. Carter's sense of humour operated a little slowly. But, after driving about half the short distance to the Gloria in silence, she smiled and said ruefully:

"That kind never grows fat. They don't even have to diet." And, as she herself did, she sighed a little. Anne changed the subject, not particularly wishing to start Mrs. Carter on further reminiscences. And a few minutes later she was being dropped at the hotel, having thanked her hostess very warmly for her nice evening. Upstairs in the suite once more, she found no sign of Mrs. Farraday. She glanced at the clock, and saw that it was only a few minutes past eleven. Quite an early hour for anyone who had gone out on an evening's pleasure, of course, but growing a little late for someone who was supposed to be a semi-invalid. Still, there was nothing much to worry about yet. So Anne went to her own room, changed into her very pretty housecoat, and decided to read for an hour before going to bed. She was not, she knew, expected to wait up until Mrs. Farraday came in, but - without making any explanations to herself, - Anne decided not to go to bed just yet. The book she had been reading earlier in the day had seemed at that time exceptionally absorbing. Now she found it difficult even to pick up the thread of the story again, and, after reading a couple of pages, she found that her attention had wandered. She was just making a determined effort to begin again when the telephone bell rang, and, with something between anxiety and relief, Anne ran to answer its summons. "Long-distance call," the hotel operator informed her, and a moment later Murray Farraday's voice said: "Hello! Is that Miss Brendall?"

"Yes," Anne said with an unfamiliar sense of half-guilty dismay. "Yes, it is." "How are you enjoying yourself?" His tone sounded friendly, and her heart-beats slowed down again. "I'm having a wonderful time," Anne assured him eagerly. "I went to a film premiere tonight. I've never been to anything like that before and I was simply thrilled." "I'm so glad." He sounded as though he really might be. "May I speak to my mother, please?" This, of course, was the danger-point! "I'm so sorry." Anne tried to sound casual. "I'm afraid she isn't in just yet, but—" "Not in?" "No. But I'm expecting her any moment." She hoped she sounded less suspiciously placatory than she felt. "Oh—" He sounded rather vexed. "What is it? - a party?" "No," Anne said hastily. "No, just a - quiet evening with a friend, I think." He laughed, but a little shortly. "I'm not so sure that Mother's friends believe in quiet evenings," he said. "Which one is it?" Anne's heart gave a great thump at that. She had to take a lightning decision. Either she must say the truth, which would probably cause

trouble all round, or else she must "hedge" in a way that would make her something of a conspirator. With the greatest reluctance - though she managed to banish all sound of that from her voice - Anne said: "I don't really know. She has several friends that I haven't met, you know. But don't be worried," she added quickly. "It's most unusual for her to have a late night like this. She keeps very sensible hours, on the whole, and she's looking wonderfully well, Mr. Farraday." "Is that so?" He sounded so pleased and relieved that Anne felt unreasonably guilty again, though this time she had told him the exact truth. "Yes. Would you like to ring again later, or shall I give Mrs. Farraday a message?" "I think it will do if you just give her a message for me," he said. "I find that I can run up to town for a day or two at the beginning of the coming week and—" "Oh, I am glad!" exclaimed Anne, with a fervour which, she immediately realized, must sound excessive. He laughed. "That's very nice of you." Anne felt her cheeks go hot. "Well, I - I meant that Mrs. Farraday will be so pleased." "Oh, please don't take it all back," he said, and, to her astonishment, Anne thought she detected a note of teasing in his voice. "I hope you'll continue to be a little bit pleased on your own account.

Anyway, I ought to arrive some time on Tuesday, and I can stay for a couple of days at least. So think out what you would like to do, and I shall be very happy to take you both out." "Thank you very much," Anne said earnestly, hoping that her relief at the thought of shared responsibility had not made her sound too fulsome. "I'll tell Mrs. Farraday as soon as she comes in." "Fine. Good night, then, Miss Brendall." And he rang off, leaving Anne to wonder whether she had been deceitful, or merely very tactful and diplomatic. She was still sitting there beside the telephone when Mrs. Farraday came in, five minutes later. "Hello, Anne. Not in bed yet?" She spoke just a little sharply, though she looked so utterly radiant that Anne was glad that at least she had said nothing to Murray which could cause an immediate crisis. "No. I wasn't specially sleepy. Mr. Murray Farraday just rang up from home." "Murray?" Mrs. Farraday had been moving towards her own room as Anne spoke, but she stopped suddenly, though she did not turn round. "What did he want?" "He phoned to say he would be in town at the beginning of next week for a few days.'.' Mrs. Farraday gave a very slight exclamation - not, Anne thought, indicative of any pleasure. "Did he ask where I was ?" "Yes. I said you were out with a friend."

"Did he ask which friend?" "Yes," Anne said, "he did." Only then did Mrs. Farraday turn round to look at her. "And what did you say?" "I told him," Anne said slowly, "that I didn't know." There was a curious little silence. Then Mrs. Farraday gave a short, relieved laugh. "That was very - sensible of you, Anne," she said. "I didn't know you had so much discretion." Anne found no immediate answer to that. She felt rather miserable and deceitful, and not at all discreet. "It was against my better judgment," she said at last. Mrs. Farraday glanced at her quickly. She was, Anne thought, on the point of asking her how much she knew. Then evidently she decided it was best not to have the situation any more clearly defined between them. Instead, she asked lightly and pleasantly: "What did you do with your evening?" "Oh—." Anne roused herself to accept the change of subject, "Mrs. Carter came. She thought you were going with her to that film premiere and—" "How tiresome of her! Was she annoyed to find me gone?" "Only very superficially. She kindly took me with her instead."

"I'm so glad." Mrs. Farraday smiled at Anne with real kindness, and Anne felt her heart warm to her once more. "Did you enjoy yourself?" "Very much indeed, thank you." "And did Nan ask where I was?" "Yes. And I told her." Mrs. Farraday made a slight face. "Did it matter?" Anne asked, carefully avoiding Mrs. Farraday's eyes. "No: Nan always finds out everything, anyway. Besides —" She paused thoughtfully. Then, without finishing her sentence, she added, with seeming irrelevance, "You mustn't pay too much attention to anything Nan says, you know. She's a great gossip." "I have gathered that," Anne remarked a little dryly. And Mrs. Farraday laughed again, bade her good night, and went into her own room. Slowly Anne returned to her bedroom. She had not, she realized, even ventured to ask Mrs. Farraday how she had enjoyed her evening. At least, she had not found any opportunity of doing so. "But there was no need to ask," thought Anne with a sigh. "She looked so radiant and happy. I'm afraid there was no case of healthy disappointment where Colonel Askew was concerned." Still, Murray would be coming in a few days' time, she reflected, again with that overwhelming sense of relief. Not that he could be told - or even be allowed to guess - the real state of affairs. But his very presence would alter the situation somewhat, and reduce her own crushing, if rather illogical, feeling of responsibility.

Besides, it would be nice just to see him. Lying in bed and listening to the subdued, far-away hum of London's night traffic, Anne thought almost affectionately of Murray Farraday. He seemed a different person now from the authoritative, forbidding man she had tackled on that first evening at the Water Mill. Authoritative in manner he still remained, and there were times even now when she was still a little afraid of him. But she liked him. She liked his integrity, his quick appreciation of one's feelings astonishing, she supposed, in a man of his type, for it argued a considerable amount of imagination and a certain sensitiveness which one did not associate with Murray Farraday. And she liked the fact that he liked her! "It's always nice to be approved," thought Anne with a smile. And then - "How silly Mrs. Carter is! Why call him 'a horrid little boy'? I expect he was just the same as other little boys. Often tiresome, but usually interesting and rather a pet, if you don't expect too much. Anyway, it couldn't have been very nice for him, in a home where the parents, didn't really get on very well. Children always sense these things." She tried to imagine what he would have been like as a child. Lean and energetic and independent, with those bright blue eyes which saw so much, and that keen intelligence which perhaps made him understand too much for his peace of mind. He must have been rather a handsome child, she supposed, but not exactly the darling of either his mother or his father. Mr. Farraday would never have been the type to be affectionately interested in his son. A daughter - possibly. Anne recalled with amused interest his fascinated reactions to Pansy's handling.

And then Mrs. Farraday, though described by Nan Carter as being "fond of that boy of hers," was not at all the maternal type. The beautiful parent that one might adore at a distance, but not the type to whom one wept if things went wrong or boasted childishly if things went right. "Perhaps he didn't need that, though," thought Anne doubtfully. "He's so very independent and self-sufficient - now. He may always have been that way. - Or perhaps he just had to learn to be. It's difficult to say what was cause and what was effect, at this distance of time. But I wouldn't have liked Richard or Pansy to have had that childhood." And thinking contentedly of her young brother and sister, she finally fell asleep. The next morning Mrs. Farraday was tired and rather silent. Anne made no reference to her unusually late night. During the day Mrs. Farraday referred again to Murray's telephone call. "When did you say he was coming?" she asked Anne. "Some time on Tuesday." "Hm - and today is Saturday. Well, if I don't feel much like going out, he must just take you instead." "Oh, but he'll be frightfully disappointed!" Mrs. Farraday looked amused. "Do you think so? I'm not sure that sons are always so frantically anxious to take out their mothers when there's a pretty girl to take out instead."

"But he was looking forward to taking you out. I'm sure he was," Anne insisted earnestly. "He's awfully proud of you. And well he may be! Not many sons have such a lovely mother to take about." Mrs. Farraday laughed, and patted Anne's cheek, but of course she was not displeased. "Well, it's quite true that he used to like to show me off on Speech Days at school and that sort of thing," she conceded. "But then I really was something to look at in those days." "You still are," Anne said. "But go on." "Go on about what?" Mrs. Farraday wanted to know, again with that air of amusement. "Oh, I thought you were going to tell me about when Murray - when your son was a schoolboy." "He was just like any other schoolboy," Mrs. Farraday asserted. "I didn't see much of him except in the holidays, of course. He was rather a silent, undemonstrative child, but I think he was very fond of me, in his way. It was a pity he was the only one. Bob and I should both have liked a girl too." "Would you?" Anne could not hide her astonishment, for the picture which Mrs. Carter had drawn of the Farraday household had certainly not included any suggestion of a shared wish of that sort. "Why, yes, of course. I think girls are more fun, for their mothers, anyway. And I suppose Bob would have liked a girl who looked like me." "Mr. Farraday is - very fond of you, in his way, isn't he?" Anne said, rather shyly.

At which Mrs. Farraday laughed a little doubtfully and said, "Yes, I suppose he is. - Yes, of course he is, in his way," and then looked rather as though she wondered how they had arrived at this point in the conversation. The rest of the weekend was spent very quietly. Either Mrs. Farraday felt the need for rest, or else Colonel Askew had other plans. And Anne - telling herself that she was like a hen with one chick - felt very glad to have Mrs. Farraday in her immediate care. Monday, however, dawned bright and cloudless, and an early telephone call - received when Anne was downstairs on some errand for her employer - decided Mrs. Farraday to be out for the whole day. "You can do some shopping, dear, or whatever else you like." she told Anne, with that suspiciously generous air of not wishing to occupy Anne's time or that of anyone else. "Anyway, the day is yours." Anne thanked her, tried not to feel worried, and planned to buy one or two small presents for home and go to see an exhibition of pictures which she had hoped to visit. Unlike many people, she never felt lonely when she was left to herself in London like this. She really liked moving about among the crowds, sitting in the Park and watching the people who passed, window-gazing, or bus-riding. To Anne all people were interesting, and, even if she never knew their real story, she liked to watch their change of expression, notice their momentary reactions, and amuse herself by wondering what they were really like at home. So far as her own affairs were concerned, therefore, she was perfectly happy all day. And in the evening she wrote a long, long letter to Gregory.

She had written regularly, of course, both to him and to her family, but usually just rather scrappy notes which simply gave a brief account of her daily routine. Now she was able to write him a letter more on the lines of one of their long, intimate talks. And though she could not, naturally, tell even Gregory about her real concern for Mrs. Farraday, she did let him know that Mrs. Farraday had real need of her, and that it had not been just caprice on the part of Mr. Farraday and Murray which had sent her to London in company with her employer. As she wrote, the familiar atmosphere of home seemed to gather round her, and Anne felt faintly nostalgic and could not help thinking that, after all, it would be fun to be home again, even if being there did involve a fresh set of cares. Besides, if the family really had got on quite well without her, that would mean that she and Gregory could plan for an early wedding, without her wondering frantically how she was going to arrange everything for the best at home. For a long while, Anne sat by the window, gazing out dreamily into the Park, and thinking of the day when she and Gregory would be married and have a home of their own. It would be wonderful to have anyone as dear and dependable as that in the background, quite apart from anything else. And then there would not be all sorts of other claims pulling her in different directions. Her life would be built round Gregory, and everything would be simple and straightforward and lovely. "I'm very lucky to be marrying the person who really means most to me," thought Anne soberly. "It must be awful to live through the sort of emotional tug-of-war that Mrs. Farraday has known. Of course she's been foolish not to end it long ago, poor darling, but how easy it is to advise sensibly when it isn't one's own feelings that are concerned!"

Anne had just reached this charitable verdict when the sound of the telephone bell brought her back to earth, and a moment later the hotel operator's voice was informing her once more: "Long-distance call." This time there was some delay in putting the call through, and Anne found herself clutching the receiver rather tightly and hoping fervently that this was not Murray again. Particularly that it should not be Murray saying that he was not coming tomorrow, after all. And then she heard the connection click into place, and it was Gregory's voice that said: "Hallo, darling, is that you?" "Gregory! How lovely! I was just thinking about you—" "Very suitable too," he interrupted with a laugh. "I hope you've been pining for me a little." "Well, I have," Anne admitted. "I've had today on my own, and I couldn't help thinking how heavenly it would have been if you'd been here, and then I wrote you a long letter, Gregory. I've just posted it in the hotel box. You'll get it tomorrow evening or Wednesday morning. Oh, and, Gregory - when are you going to find time to rim up to town and see me?" "Sweetheart, that's one reason why I phoned." He sounded concerned. "I don't think I'm going to be able to make it—" "Oh!" "I'm terribly sorry, Anne dear, but there's an unbelievable rush of work at the office at the moment, and I don't see how I can get away

yet. I expect you'll be back before we slacken off, but if not, of course I'll come." "Yes, all right, darling. I do understand." Anne thought she had pleaded work too often herself to be able to feel ill-used when the position was reversed. "I don't really know how long we're staying. Murray Farraday is coming up tomorrow for a couple of days and we may fix our return then. But of course I'll let you know." When Mrs. Farraday came in - at a commendably early hour - she looked dispirited and restless. "Her day didn't go very well," thought Anne with quick sympathy. And yet how could one wish that it had? "Did you have a nice time?" Anne asked her. And Mrs. Farraday said, "Very nice, thank you," and looked tired of everything, Anne thought. However, by the next day she had recovered if not her spirits, at least her power to hide her inmost feelings. And when Murray arrived in the late afternoon, she greeted him as though she were really very glad to see him. Indeed, Anne thought she had never seen Mrs. Farraday express quite so much feeling as when she actually flung her arms round Murray and kissed him and said: "I'm so glad you were able to come!" "Are you, darling?" Anne had never heard him use such a term before, and she was touched by the tenderness with which he returned his mother's embrace. "I rather wondered if you'd be enjoying yourself so much that you wouldn't want to find time for me."

"No - oh, no," Mrs. Farraday said, and Anne, at least, heard her suppress a quick sigh. Murray Farraday shook hands with Anne, and said: "Now, what are we all doing tonight?" "You and Anne are going to a show," Mrs. Farraday said. "Oh, Mrs. Farraday!" Anne looked reproachful. "Aren't you coming too?" "No, dear. I'll have dinner downstairs with you both first, but I don't think I'll go to a theatre tonight." Anne bit her lip and felt a little awkward. It was all very well to include her in a threesome with Murray and his mother, but there was no reason why he should want to take her out as a solo partner. However, if he felt bored at being saddled with his mother's companion for the evening, he concealed the fact well. And again Anne was almost passionately glad that Sara had insisted on lending her the evening dress and the fur jacket. All the same, when - after an early dinner - Mrs. Farraday left them and returned to the suite alone, Anne felt she was going to need all the moral support of Sara's borrowed plumes to carry her through aw evening alone with Murray Farraday. She remembered nervously that Sara had always described him as a good deal run after by women, and she felt she must be a rather unexciting proposition compared with the entertaining and soignee young women he was, presumably, in the habit of taking out. However, it was no good spoiling the pleasure of both of them by being too diffident, she decided, and she was pleased to find that at

least he had paid her the compliment of selecting a straight play which called for a little intelligence on the part of the audience as well as the actors. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked her in the first interval, and there was an odd note of indulgence in his tone. "Yes, tremendously. Are you?" He smiled. "I think it's extremely clever. I don't know that I have your refreshing capacity for enjoyment," he said. Anne bit her lip. "You mean that you think I'm a bit naive?" "No. I think I meant that I envy you a little," he told her amusedly. "You ought not to say things like that at your age," Anne told him, without stopping to think what she was saying. "Really? Do you mean that I'm too young or too old for such sentiments?" he inquired. "Too young, of course. You're certainly not old enough to have had your capacity for enjoyment blunted." He seemed to consider that quite attentively. "It's probably a question of temperament rather than age, Miss Brendall," he said, still with that slight smile. "I doubt if I ever found things as enthralling and delightful as you do. You have a very happy temperament."

"I've had a very happy life," Anne replied thoughtfully. "I mean I have a very happy life." "Have you?" This view of her life seemed to surprise him. "In what way?" "Why, I'm young, I have perfect health and a good home, and a job which I like and for which I'm generously paid. And I'm engaged to the nicest man in the world. What more could I ask?" "It certainly sounds a very satisfactory sum total," he agreed with a laugh. And then the curtain rose on the second act. Again the play absorbed most of Anne's attention, but this time she was also a little more aware of her companion, and she knew that once at least he watched her for some moments, instead of watching the stage. She wondered passingly what there could be about her of sufficient interest to draw his attention from the action of the drama. Then she forgot about him again in her interest in the play. When it was all over she found, to her surprise, that he intended to take her out to supper. "But don't you think Mrs. Farraday will expect me to go straight home?" she asked doubtfully. "I'm quite sure she won't." Murray smiled. "She'll probably be in bed herself by now, and will certainly trust me to take you home at a respectable hour. She would think very poorly of an evening of pleasure which ended on such a tragic note as our choice of play tonight." Anne smiled too then.

"I didn't mind that it had a sad ending," she insisted, as he handed her into the car. "It was the logical ending, wasn't it?" "Yes, it was the logical ending," he agreed. "I was afraid we were going to have a machine-made solution of the problem, but it was really left unsolved." "And you just didn't know which one to sympathize with." Anne, who was always very ready to give her sympathy, had been somewhat troubled by this. "But I suppose that's like life too." And she sighed a little. He gave her an amused glance as he started the car. "Didn't some very knowledgeable person once say that tragedy is not the struggle between right and wrong, but the struggle between right and right?" he remarked thoughtfully. Anne considered that. "It's quite true," she said earnestly. "There's something exhilarating, but not tragic, in the struggle between right and wrong. It's when both sides honestly believe they're right - or at any rate, have an understandable, human reason for what they're doing - that you sense tragedy." "Well, fortunately, we only had to witness it across the footlights tonight," he told her lightly. "I hope you're not too much harrowed to enjoy your supper." "No, of course not." Anne smiled, but she thought fleetingly of Mrs. Farraday and wondered if there were not the seeds of tragedy in the situation surrounding her. Murray took her to a very famous and exclusive night-club which had built up its reputation on the excellence of its food and the beauty

and elegance of its setting, rather than on any cheap sensationalism. And Anne felt touched by his choice of place, because she felt nearly sure that he was taking some pains to find somewhere that would please and interest her without making her feel gauche and country cousin-ish. "What a lovely, lovely place!" Anne looked round with sparkling eyes. "I've often heard of it, but I never thought I'd come here." He laughed, watching her as though her enjoyment amused and pleased him. And she realized suddenly that that was how he had watched her at the theatre. "Are you enjoying the country cousin's reactions, Mr. Farraday?" Her blue eyes suddenly came back to his face, and she gave him a very direct glance. "I wouldn't put it that way," he said. "Shall we just say that I am enjoying taking you out? Now, see what you would like to eat." She leaned forward, studying the menu with him, her head rather close to his. They were both laughing over something in a friendly, almost intimate way, when a voice said: "Good evening, Farraday." They both looked up, and Anne saw that a group of two or three people were just passing their table. But the one who had spoken was far the most striking of them all. A tall, good- looking man, with dark hair going slightly grey at the temples, smiling, intelligent eyes, and the most charming expression of alert and friendly interest that she had ever seen. "Good evening."

She thought she had never heard anything quite so curt and rude as Murray's reply. And then he was looking down at the menu again and, glancing at him almost timidly, Anne was suddenly reminded, by the set of his jaw, of all that Sara used to say about his famous temper. The others had passed on, but Anne was left with the curious impression that, for a moment, a ragged hole had been torn in the fabric of a very ordinary social occasion. With an effort, she redirected her attention to choosing what she would have to eat, but the note of almost gay intimacy which had been struck between her and Murray seemed lost. Indeed, when the waiter had taken their order and gone away, Anne saw that he was drumming his fingers moodily on the table and evidently not thinking of her at all. She was not in the least chagrined on her own account. Only, she was worried about him. And then, as a sudden, incredible suspicion crossed her mind, she spoke without stopping to think how inquisitive she must sound. "Mr. Farraday, who was that who spoke to you just now?" Those curiously light, disconcerting eyes were raised immediately, and he looked at her with that hard, almost inimical stare with which he had terrified her on the occasion of their first meeting. "Don't you know?" "No, of course not - or I shouldn't have asked." "Do you mean that you haven't seen him before?" His expression changed curiously. "No, I've never seen him before. I should have remembered him."

Murray's face cleared slightly, and he made an obvious effort to revert to their friendly footing. "He's a certain Colonel Askew. A remote relation of ours." Anne was quite silent for a moment. The forbidden subject had, for her, the fascination of the corpse for the murderer. But it was not only that. She longed for something - some sort of statement - that would put Mrs. Carter's confidences in the right perspective. At present, she was completely at sea in her suspicions and her anxieties. More than once, Mrs. Farraday had made her a reluctant if very minor - conspirator, and might well do so again. She must know something more, and here, possibly, was her chance. "Mr. Farraday," she said slowly, "what sort of man is Colonel Askew?"

CHAPTER SEVEN THE moment she had asked the question, Anne regretted having done so. Murray Farraday was not a man to be cleverly manoeuvred into supplying information without wanting to ask questions in return, and Anne immediately found herself subjected once more to that penetrating glance of his. "To my way of thinking, Gerald Askew is an outsider," Murray said dryly. "Why do you want to know?" "I just - wondered." "No, you didn't. Tell me why you asked that question." Anne swallowed slightly, rather nervously surveyed the position, and then took her decision. "Well then, Mr. Farraday, one of your mother's friends gave me a good deal of gratuitous information about him and—" "Which one?" Anne hesitated, but there was no harm in giving the name. "A Mrs. Carter - Nan Carter." "Yes, I know her." His tone implied that the acquaintanceship gave him no special pleasure. "Then you will also know that she's an arrant gossip and, without being at all ill-natured, is inclined to - well, let's say, to create a situation, just because it amuses and intrigues her to do so." "Yes, that seems to express Nan Carter pretty well."

"I probably shouldn't have paid much attention to anything she said if it hadn't fitted in with - with one or two of my own observations. I was rather - worried. And now I was just wondering whether there were any reason to be," Anne finished rather lamely. He smiled, faintly and a little grimly. "You're talking without actually saying much, aren't you, Miss Brendall? You and I are both in the awkward position of not wanting to talk about my mother when she isn't here, but, at the same time, wondering whether we ought to be franker with each other. Isn't that it?" Anne nodded. "You see, I've grown fond of your mother," she said slowly. "I mean really fond of her, so that I'd like to help her in any way, if I could, but I'd rather stay out and mind my own business, if that's the best thing for her. Some people are apt to think they can rim other people's lives for them better than they can do it themselves, and they're nearly always wrong. And of course, any advice from me would be stupid and impertinent. Only—" She stopped and bit her lip, and after a moment, Murray took hold of her hand which was lying on the table, and held it a little more tightly than was comfortable. "Listen - I feel very much the same as you do about this - with the difference that it's my mother who's concerned. It's almost impossible to do anything without seeming to spy or to interfere, which is the last thing I want to do, or to have you do. - Yes, yes, of course I know you don't want to either," he added impatiently, as Anne made a quick movement of revulsion. "But tell me what Nan Carter said to you, will you? I don't say that I shall either confirm or deny it. But I want to know what is in your mind."

"Well, there's a good deal of worry and doubt there at the moment," Anne confessed with a smile. "But Mrs. Carter's story, for what it's worth, was that your mother and Colonel Askew were - were very much in love with each other in a sort of boy and girl way when they were very young, but that they neither of them had much money and there was no question of their marrying. Then—" she glanced anxiously at him, but he was studying the pattern on the tablecloth with attention - "then your father came along and, according to Mrs. Carter, she - your mother, I mean - married his for his money." "That isn't true." He said that quite quietly but with conviction. "She and my father were very fond of each other - though, of course, the money was not without its attraction. Goon." "Apparently Colonel Askew married a rich wife, in his turn, but she died after a few years and, in Mrs. Carter's view, there was Gerald Askew nicely supplied with money for them both, if only your mother hadn't been married to your father." "And they've continued to regret it for the rest of their lives. - Is that it?" "On and off - yes. At least, according to Mrs. Carter." "Well, it wasn't like that, Anne." He seemed unaware that he had used her Christian name. "At least, the broad outlines are correct, in the misleading way that broad outlines are. What the Carter woman didn't tell you was that, by the time Askew was happily widowed, my parents were a devoted and contented couple. He spoiled her fantastically, of course, because she was the lovely, endearing kind of woman that one does spoil, but I suppose any man would have done that. Then, for an unfortunate year and a half, he was completely absorbed in the business. He had to be. There are times when a big business requires nursing and all the time you can give to it. She was

in London during a great deal of that time, and Askew was there, revived romantic old memories and made a dead set at her—" "I said he was a cad," murmured Anne indignantly. "Well, according to his code, I suppose it was all right, because he probably considered that her husband was neglecting her.' Anyway, I don't know how that kind argues," he interjected impatiently, "he got her round to thinking she had really been in love with him all the time. And I imagine that only my father's appearance on the scene and Askew's regiment being ordered to Cyprus prevented a general break-up." "Yes, Mrs. Carter mentioned that too." "But what she probably didn't tell you was that, after the showdown, my parents completely came together again. She got over Askew as though he'd been some sort of illness, and they were as happy together as they had ever been. All my childhood and schooldays I remember them as devoted. It simply isn't true to pretend anything else." "But what about when Colonel Askew came home on leave from time to time?" "They saw each other, of course, but she never took him seriously again. I don't doubt she flirted a bit - she was too pretty not to," and Murray smiled indulgently in a way that softened all the hard lines of his face, "but there was nothing - absolutely nothing serious about it any more. I can't help knowing that. It was all part of my family life the devotion between my parents, I mean." "Yes, I see," said Anne gently. "And then what happened? Because something has happened which has changed that, hasn't it?"

"Yes." He nodded curtly. "What happened was my mother's accident. You can't imagine how that changed everything, Anne - Miss Brendall, I mean." He looked faintly startled. "Anne will do all right," she told him, and he gave her a brief smile. "She was very badly injured, you know, and at first we were afraid she wasn't going to live. Then she rallied, but the doctors said she would never be able to live a very active life again. You can't imagine," he said, unconsciously using exactly the same expression again, "what a lovely vital, energetic creature she used to be. There are just a few people, you know, who seem to give out life and light all the time. She was one of them. But the accident completely changed her, and the knowledge that all that was over embittered her. It's quite understandable," he added defensively. "Yes," Anne agreed gently. "It's quite understandable." "My father isn't a particularly gentle or sensitive man. He has other virtues - but not those - and he didn't know how on earth to handle her in this changed state. He had treated her one way for over twentyfive years, and he just didn't know how to do anything else." Anne nodded sympathetically. "Mother got the idea that no one understood her any more, and that that was why she was unhappy. And then -1 suppose by some association of ideas with the happy, carefree days of her extreme youth - she decided that Gerald Askew was the one person who understood her and whom she wanted to see." "But was he in England?"

"Yes. He was still in the Army, but after a long period out East he had a home posting. Mother wanted him invited down to Benham Lodge—" "And your father refused?" "Yes, he refused." "It would have been wiser to humour her!" Anne exclaimed regretfully. "It was probably just a sick fancy." "Yes, I expect you're right. But my father can be mulishly obstinate, and I think the very intensity with which she insisted on having Gerald sent for recalled the terrible upset years ago. Frankly, Anne, I think he panicked. Anyway, he refused, and he stuck to his refusal. She was too ill to write herself, but she asked me to do so. Of course I couldn't go directly against my father's orders, though I tried to argue with him." "And it was no good?" "It was no good. I don't think she ever forgave him." "And Colonel Askew became a luscious and forbidden fruit." He smiled faintly. "I suppose so, Anne. I don't think any of us is quite capable of thinking of him with any sense of proportion now. My father is more than half afraid of him - probably the only person he's been afraid of in his life - and Mother mentally invests him with all the glory of her lost youthful gaiety and happiness." "And you?"

"I quite simply loathe him," Murray said slowly, "because I know he'll exploit the situation for his own advantage and amusement if he can." "Has she seen him since the accident? - I mean, had she seen him before she came to London this time?" He gave her a quick glance, as though he appreciated the exact implication of that change of tense. "No. But I think they wrote to each other," he said, and pressed his lips together. There was quite a long silence between them. Then he said: "I'm sorry. You're not getting much pleasure out of your supper, are you?" "It's all right." She smiled, and slowly went on eating. "You don't think—" she didn't look up - "you don't think she'd do anything silly, do you?" "No," he said, "I don't think so." But the emphasis showed that he was troubled. "I only know that he very nearly made her do something silly years ago." "But that was years ago, Mr. Farraday. She's not a romantic girl now, you know." "No. But she's a highly strung, delicate woman, with something of an obsession," he retorted dryly. "That can be just as dangerous. Besides" - he smiled suddenly in that half- rueful, half-indulgent way - "she's so terribly attractive still." Anne smiled too. "You're awfully fond of her, aren't you?"

"Yes." He nodded. "And awfully proud of her too. I used to be wild with pride about her when she came to school. None of the other mothers looked in the least like her. She didn't look like anyone's mother - more like my elder sister. She didn't like me to make a great fuss of her, but I felt like a dog with two tails when she walked round the sports field with me." Anne laughed. "How very nice. I think she knew it and liked it. Funnily enough, she said something about that to me the other day." "Did she?" He looked almost boyishly interested. "Yes. Nothing much, you know. She just referred to it, as though the recollection amused and pleased her." He smiled. "I'm glad." There was another silence. Then Anne said, "Don't worry too much about things. Probably there would have had to be this crisis at some time or another. It's better to get it over now, for emotional upsets only get worse if you put them off. Try to remember that everything solid and worthwhile in her life really weighs on the side of your father and yourself and—" "If only she hadn't got this idea that we're repressive and—" "But you are a little," Anne told him diffidently. "How do you mean?" He looked startled again and a little resentful and haughty.

"Well, both you and your father are strong and rather arrogant personalities. - You mustn't mind my saying that." "I don't mind," he told her impatiently. "Probably your mother enjoyed the fact, when she was able to cope with you both, because anyone as attractive as she is would probably rather manage a difficult man than have a tame time with an easygoing one." He laughed appreciatively. "But it's different now. I expect she used to enjoy clashes of temperament in the old days, but now she feels at a disadvantage, and, where I don't doubt she 'managed' you both before, she probably feels that you manage her now. She wouldn't like that, you know." Murray looked at her thoughtfully. "No, I dare say you're right." "When she gets over this - this rather feverish way of asserting herself, for I'm sure she will," declared Anne with more real confidence than she felt, "and you and your father had better go out of your way to let her think she still rules the household. It's quite easy." "Is it?" He smiled doubtfully. "Of course," Anne said briskly. "Most women know exactly how to give that impression, and it shouldn't be difficult for two intelligent men to learn." He really did laugh then, as she had meant him to, and his anxious expression relaxed. "I don't wonder your family don't want to part with you," he said irrelevantly. "When is this marriage of yours going to be, by the way?"

"Well - perhaps near the beginning of next year," Anne told him. "It rather depends—" And suddenly she found herself explaining to him just how much she was hoping from the experiment of leaving the family on their own, and what a problem it was to know which was the best way of accustoming them to the idea of doing without her. "I didn't know one had to put so much deliberate thought into making a success of family life," he said at last, half scornful and half intrigued. "Why, of course!" Anne laughed. "You wouldn't expect your business to run well on a little haphazard attention, would you?" He smiled and shook his head. "Well, family life is not so different. In a way, it's a much more delicate mechanism than a business, but there is a good deal more natural loyalty and co-operation to help things along. At its best, it's very loosely knit, and yet the links are the strongest thing in the world. Additions and detachments always mean readjustments for the others, so it's worth a great deal of trouble to see that happens smoothly. That's all." "I see," he said, and she wondered suddenly if she had been addressing him "like a public meeting." But, as they got up to go, he took her lightly by her arm and said: "You're a good girl, Anne. I'm glad Mother has you with her." She laughed softly and said: "Thank you, Mr. Farraday. I'll look after her as well as ever I can." And she meant it.

During the rest of his short visit, they said nothing more to each other about Mrs. Farraday. The next day Anne saw very little of either of them, as he drove his mother into Surrey to see friends of theirs, and on the Thursday he was busy all day on business affairs, though he had promised to take his mother and Anne out in the evening. On the Thursday afternoon, Anne went out to do some shopping for Mrs. Farraday, and she was sauntering down Regent Street in the sunshine when a voice from a stationary car hailed her, and there was Nan Carter, leaning from the open window of her Cortina, signalling energetically. Anne crossed the pavement to her. "My dear, how very, very fortunate! You're just the person I wanted to see," Mrs. Carter declared. "Jump in and I'll drive you wherever you were going." "Well, I wasn't really going anywhere," Anne admitted. "I'd finished my shopping and was simply idling along enjoying the sunshine." "Splendid!" Nan Carter meant that there was therefore nothing to interfere with her own plans. "Then we'll just drive around a little, because I want to talk to you." Rather reluctantly, Anne got into the car beside Mrs. Carter, hoping that she was not in for any embarrassing confidences or - still worse catechisms. "Dear, it's about Saturday evening," Nan Carter began at once, adroitly threading her way through the traffic. "Has Sonia told you about Saturday evening ?" "She's going to dinner with you, isn't she?" "Yes, that's right. And she's persuaded me to ask him too."

"Who, Mrs. Carter?" Anne asked, knowing perfectly well who was meant, but determined not to appear as knowing as Mrs. Carter seemed to expect. "Why, Gerald Askew, of course. Who else? I think it's Soma's idea that they can't run around, just the two of them, all the time, without giving a very definite character to their relationship. And, as I'm her oldest friend— Just look at that man in front! What does he think he's doing? Doesn't he know which way he wants to turn? There! He's scraped his back mudguard and serve him right. - What was I saying?" "You were saying that you were Mrs. Farraday's oldest friend," Anne reminded her dryly. "Oh, yes. Well, you see, she just begged me to arrange this dinnerparty, and I'm afraid I was weak and said I would - just her and Gerald Askew and myself and Toby Carrick, who of course is nothing but a tame cat, though terribly sweet. And now I'm worried about it because I feel terribly responsible. Only I've thought of such a good way out of the difficulty. I'm going to ask you too and - let me see - perhaps Andrew Urquhart to partner you. - Do you know Andrew?" "No, Mrs. Carter. But, in any case—" "Well, you'll like him. Everyone likes Andrew. He's so co-operative, if you know what I mean. So that's splendid! Now don't tell me you have some other engagement on Saturday." "No, I haven't, but—" "Well then, that's settled."

"No, Mrs. Carter, it is not settled," Anne said, contriving to get a word in at last. "It's very kind of you to ask me to your dinner-party, but in what capacity are you asking me?" "Why, as a guest, of course." "Yes, but I mean - what are you expecting me to do? You spoke as though you'd created a situation which now scared you, and you thought you would redress it by inviting me along. I can assure you I have no intention whatever of acting as any sort of spy on Mrs. Farraday or - or brake on her behaviour or anything. I just—" "Darling, of course not!" Mrs. Carter gave a rather affected little shriek of laughter. "It's just that I don't want the sole responsibility. I mean - just suppose they came to some silly decision in my house or - or went off together directly from there or something, no one would ever believe I hadn't been in it too, and I just couldn't bear people to think I'd act that way. But if you're there, that would be a natural how did you put it? - brake on things. It would probably mean all the difference between Sonia keeping her head and losing it." Anne was silent. She felt extreme distaste for the whole business, quite apart from the fact that Mrs. Farraday would be anything but pleased at the arrangement. And yet there was something in what the silly little feather-brain beside her was saying. By her very presence, she probably would, keep things at a much more reasonable and normal level. "Well, what are you hesitating about?" Mrs. Carter asked impatiently. "Mrs. Carter, I don't want any misconstruction put on this—" "It's not a question of construction or misconstruction, you silly girl! It's just a case of joining my dinner-party."

"I wish you'd put it that way in the beginning," Anne said ruefully. "Well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." Mrs. Carter evidently thought Anne was suffering from pique. "Anyway, I'm putting it that way now. Please do come. I'd like to have you. And I'm sure you'll like Andrew Urquhart —Or I'll ask someone else, if you'd prefer." Anne hastened to say that the unknown Mr. Urquhart would do perfectly well for the occasion, and that she would be very pleased to join the party. "I'm so glad. That's a weight off my mind," declared Mrs. Carter, who had, Anne could not help thinking, the kind of mind which simply could not have supported a weight. "Murray has been here the last day or two, hasn't he?" Nan Carter said, as she drew up the car outside the Gloria. "Yes." "How do you get on with him?" She gave Anne a glance of frank curiosity. "Very well indeed." "Do you really? He always makes me feel uncomfortable. I don't think he likes me somehow," Mrs. Carter said, as though she recognized this curious fact without being able to explain it. "He isn't a very demonstrative sort of person," Anne explained diplomatically. Mrs. Carter agreed that indeed he was not. And then they parted company.

Anne decided that she would feel much less self-conscious if she told Mrs. Farraday right away about the invitation for Saturday evening, and she was glad to find, on reaching the suite, that Murray had already returned and was talking to his mother. It was easier to be more casual about the whole thing when she had not just to face Mrs. Farraday herself. They both looked up as Anne came in, and Mrs. Farraday said: "Dear me, child, how cheerful you're looking. You're always smiling about something or other." "Well, something nice always seems to be happening," Anne replied, at which the others both laughed. "What is it this time?" Murray glanced at her with that faintly indulgent look which he usually kept for his mother. "Why, I met Mrs. Carter when I was out just now, and - wasn't it kind of her? - she asked me to come to her dinnerparty on Saturday evening." Anne had to look at Mrs. Farraday when she said that, or it would have seemed as though she were deliberately avoiding her eyes. But she hated to see the way that lovely face changed. Not very much. Not enough for an unknowing observer even to notice probably. Only Anne saw the quick flash of dismayed anger, followed by a faintly baffled expression. "There's nothing much in that to excite you," she said coolly to Anne. "It will be a very dull, routine affair. Nan doesn't go in for brilliance at her dinner-table. You'd do much better to let me make some excuse for you and have Murray get you a seat for some really good show on that night."

"Yes, of course, if you'd prefer that." Murray, who had been glancing at the evening paper, looked up and politely confirmed his mother's suggestion. "No, thank you very much. I'd - I'd really much rather go to the party." "It isn't a party, you silly child!" exclaimed Mrs. Farraday impatiently. "Nan is just having a few people to dinner." "Yes, I know. But I'd like to go," Anne insisted, wondering if she were doing this very badly. But apparently not, because Murray said: "Oh, well, of course, do whatever you would really like best." And after that, Mrs. Farraday evidently felt that she could not reasonably say more. But there was a coolness in her manner to Anne, and more than once dining the evening she glanced at her speculatively, as though she were trying - as no doubt she was - to decide whether Anne herself realized that there was any special significance in that invitation for Saturday evening. Murray left them the next day, without anything having been actually settled in connection with their return home. But he implied that he would see them both again very soon, so evidently he expected either that they would return or that he would come to town again. Anne was tempted to point out that she herself could not stay indefinitely. But she was afraid that, if she did so, Mrs. Farraday would seize the opportunity to say that, now she was comfortably settled at the Gloria, she could manage very well on her own. So she had to let the opportunity pass.

Even after Murray had gone, Mrs. Farraday did not revert to the subject of the dinner-party. Only, on the Saturday evening, when Anne was going to get ready, she said: "Oh, you're coming, are you ?" "Why, yes, Mrs. Farraday. I - told you I was." "I thought you might have changed your mind," Mrs. Farraday said, and her tone was more unfriendly than Anne had ever heard it. In any other circumstances, she would have reacted very definitely to such a snub, and have said that, in that case, perhaps it would indeed be better if she stayed at home. But, the more Mrs. Farraday tried to force her out of the picture, the more Anne felt it was really important that she went to the party. And, although she felt both miserable and embarrassed, she determinedly went to her room to get ready. "If Murray hadn't sounded so genuinely relieved to think that I was with her, I just wouldn't go on with this," Anne thought, as she dressed. "But, though both he and I knew there was nothing really definite that could be done, I'm sure he's relying on me to be on the spot and act as some sort of counter-balance, if the necessity arises." But she hated the part assigned to her. And when she returned to the sitting-room and found that she still had to wait for Mrs. Farraday, she wandered about rather restlessly, wishing very heartily that the evening were over. Then there was a knock on the door which led directly into the passage.

"Come in," Anne called. And then, as there was no immediate response, she went to the door and opened it. Outside stood Gregory, smiling broadly. And, as she cried out with mingled delight and surprise and dismay that he should have chosen just this evening to turn up, he caught her in his arms and kissed her. "There! Isn't this a wonderful surprise?" he demanded, as he followed her into the room. "Gregory, it's - marvellous! But why didn't you let me know you were coming?" "Didn't know myself until early this afternoon. And I caught the next train up and here I am. So just you persuade Mrs. Farraday to let you off whatever you were going to do tonight, because I've got to get right back again tomorrow morning. This is our big night." "Oh, Gregory!" Her dismay showed plainly in her face. "I -1 can't possibly come out with you this evening. Couldn't you—" "Why not?" His disappointment was almost ludicrous. "Surely Mrs. Farraday will understand." "What ought I to understand?" inquired Mrs. Farraday, coming into the room at that moment. "Good evening, Mr. Payne. This is quite a surprise visit, isn't it? Have you come to take Anne away from me for the evening ?"

CHAPTER EIGHT AT Mrs. Farraday's smiling inquiry, Anne saw Gregory's face clear, and at the same time her own heart sank. She knew, from the flash of relief in her employer's eyes, that it was of very personal importance to her that she should go alone to Nan Carter's party that night. And that meant, if Anne and Murray were right in their fears and their theories, that, for her own sake, she should not go alone. "I was just telling Anne, Mrs. Farraday, that I had the unexpected chance of running up to town for a few hours," Gregory began to explain, before Anne could find her voice. "And I was hoping you would understand that it's rather a special occasion and spare her to me for the evening." Mrs. Farraday smiled in her most charming way. "Why, of course—" she began. But Anne struck in quickly. "I've just explained to Gregory that I really can't, Mrs. Farraday. I promised Mrs. Carter that I'd complete her party for her and I can't let her down at such short notice. I'm terribly sorry, Gregory." She put her hand on his arm, trying to soften what she knew must seem a quite unnecessary blow. "If you'd only phoned beforehand—" "But, my dear, I'm certain Nan would understand." Mrs. Farraday herself was kindly understanding personified at that moment. "I'll explain to her and make your excuses." "Thank you, but I couldn't—"

"Anne!" Gregory sounded both astonished and annoyed. "If Mrs. Farraday says it's all right, I'm quite sure it is." "No." Anne shook her head, feeling that her obstinacy must seem both absurd and unreasonable. "Mrs. Farraday wasn't there when the invitation was given. Mrs. Carter was most kind and pressing about my coming. I really couldn't just refuse to turn up now. It - it would look as though I didn't appreciate her kindness, and I'd hate to - to hurt or offend her." "Nan isn't so sensitive as all that, my dear," Mrs. Farraday said dryly. And Anne was almost shocked at the coldly speculative look which was given her. Undoubtedly Mrs. Farraday guessed that her companion had some ulterior motive insisting on being present. Poor Gregory, without even the satisfaction of being able to guess at any reason for his fiancee's behaviour, was beginning to look very angry and very puzzled. "Look here, Anne - I don't want to embarrass Mrs. Farraday by turning this into a personal argument—" "I'm not in the least embarrassed," Mrs. Farraday interrupted, with a smile which had always made men think her both charming and understanding. "You go right ahead and tell the silly girl what you think of her. It's probably just what I'm thinking of her too, and she ought to be ashamed of herself." "There, Anne!" Gregory turned triumphantly to her. "Don't you see, dear, that you're just being obstinate an£ silly? Mrs. Farraday knows much better than you do how her friend would take this. Obviously, it isn't a formal affair and—" "Why don't we ring up Nan and ask her if she minds?" suggested Mrs. Farraday with an air of being helpful, but with a hint of malice

in her tone Which conveyed to Anne the fact that she thought she was playing a trump card. "That's a splendid idea!" Gregory evidently thought Mrs. Farraday a woman of resource and heart. "No," Anne said, and was aware that they both looked at her in astonishment, Mrs. Farraday that she should cling so obstinately to her dangerous determination, and Gregory at what he took to be her extraordinary unreasonableness. "I'm really very, very sorry, Gregory." Anne turned appealingly to her fiancé. "But I want to go to this dinnerparty. Mrs. Carter knew as much, and very kindly made a point of asking me. I can't and I won't turn the invitation down at this last minute. If you'd only given me some notice—" Her voice trailed away on the reiteration of what she knew to be a quite immaterial proviso. Gregory evidently recognized it as such, because he made no further reference to it. He merely said, with rather ominous quiet: "I'm very sorry too, Anne. If I'd realized that you meant you preferred to go to this Mrs. Carter's rather than come out with me, of course I wouldn't have pressed the point. I hope you have a lovely time. And I mustn't keep you and Mrs. Farraday any longer." He turned to Mrs. Farraday and shook hands with her - not emphasizing the fact that she, at least, had been reasonable, but smiling at her as though he knew she had done her best for him. Then he kissed Anne - but rather more as a social duty than a romantic pleasure - and turned to go. "Oh, Gregory!" She could not let him go like that and she ran to the door and caught him by the arm. "When shall I see you again?"

"I don't know." He looked down at her. "When you choose to come home, I suppose." "I couldn't help it - I couldn't help it," she whispered urgently. But he looked so astonished, and so ready to reopen the argument, that she added hastily, "But you'd better go now, I'll write to you." "Very well." He looked anything but satisfied, but it was all that she could do. And When the door closed behind him, she stood staring at the blank panels, until Mrs. Farraday's voice said behind her: "You acted very foolishly, Anne. That's the sort of thing which makes a girl lose a man, you know." "Oh, I don't think so." Anne strove to make that sound light and carefree - and indeed, she could not imagine that even a sharp misunderstanding with Gregory would mean any break between them - but she thought with distasteful regret of the role she had been forced to play, and longed for the time when she could explain to Gregory that she was not so capricious and obstinate as she had been forced to appear. "I'm sure Nan will be flattered when she hears what a high value you set on her invitation," Mrs. Farraday said, again with that slight hint of malice in her tone. And Anne found no suitable reply to that, as they went down in the lift together. In the car there was silence between them. Anne knew that her pleasant, friendly relationship with her employer was, at least momentarily, quite spoiled. Mrs. Farraday neither trusted nor liked her at this moment, and Anne began to wonder

whether it would not have been much better to have taken the risk of letting her go alone. It was all very well to think regretfully of her spoiled relationship with Mrs. Farraday. But what about the infinitely more precious relationship with Gregory? Suppose he chose to regard this slight as the logical development of what he considered to be her tendency to neglect him in favour of her family? Suppose at this very moment he were angrily boring himself with his own company and telling himself that she always put someone else first? that if it wasn't her family it was her employer, and if it wasn't her employer, it was her employer's friends. Anne was so deeply dismayed at the picture which this conjured up that, had she had any idea where Gregory could be found at that moment, she would, certainly have told Mrs. Farraday that she had changed her mind, and begged to have her excuses made to Nan Carter even now. But it was too late. The phrase struck with an ominous chill on Anne's heart. She tried to tell herself that she was being fanciful, that she was exaggerating things because she hated being on bad terms with Gregory - or, indeed, with Mrs. Farraday. But the sad fact remained that she had pleased nobody by her almost panic stand. Gregory, who had longed to take her out, had gone away baffled and annoyed by her behaviour. And Mrs. Farraday, who evidently wished her anywhere but where she was, took no pains to hide the fact. Meanwhile, there was the evening to be lived through. And, as the car drew up outside Mrs. Carter's beautiful little Georgian house in Chelsea, Anne thought that it was not going to be an easy evening to live through.

They were the last guests to arrive, and Anne thought, as they entered the elegant, beautifully furnished double drawing-room and were introduced, that Nan Carter had described her three male guests with singular accuracy. Toby Carrick was indeed tame. So tame that one felt he would never give one the full-blooded satisfaction of finding him in violent disagreement with oneself. Andrew Urquhart was obviously the kind whom everyone liked. He was one of that shining company of perfect bachelor guests who are beloved by hostesses, approved by their elders, adored by debutantes, and usually married by charming, moneyed widows just when everyone has decided that no one will ever succeed in leading them to the altar. As for Gerald Askew, he was, Anne felt sure, all that Murray had said and implied. And yet, undoubtedly, it would have been hard to imagine anything more charming than the way in which he acknowledged the introduction to herself. "Miss Brendall, I had no idea I was going to have this pleasure!" He neither held her hand too long, nor gazed at her too meaningly. He merely conveyed the fact that he had been longing to meet her and was astonished and delighted that such luck should have fallen to his lot that evening. "Mrs. Farraday has told me so much about you." Then Nan Carter seized upon her and said, with tactless fervour: "I'm so glad you were able to come!" "You don't know how nearly she didn't," Mrs. Farraday declared. "Her fiancé arrived quite unexpectedly, with only one evening to spare in town. And she actually refused to go out with him, and chose to keep her engagement here instead."

Anne felt that everyone looked at her in surprise, and she knew her colour rose. Then Andrew Urquhart, naturally, bridged the awkward moment by declaring: "That is a social conscience for you. I hope he saw things in the same light as you did, Miss Brendall. But you might have brought him along with you." "Yes, why didn't you?" asked Nan Carter brightly. "I should have been delighted." "I thought it might have spoiled your numbers," Anne said miserably. And could have cried to think that there might well have been so simple a solution to her problem. "Oh, well, no one ever minds about an extra man," Nan Carter explained candidly. "It's when people unload dumb extra females on you that you want to do murder. Still, never mind. You must bring him another time." Another rime! thought Anne sadly. At this moment, she was not in a mood to believe there would ever be another time. All through the meal, while trying desperately to keep up a conversation with Andrew Urquhart, Anne was aware of Mrs. Farraday talking alternately to Gerald Askew, and to her neighbour at her other side. "If I can keep him from having any long, persuasive talk with her," Anne told herself, "I can take her home with me tonight with the consciousness of having got her past one of the danger-points of this London visit." But Gerald Askew was not, of course, so easy to set aside. He was used to getting what he wanted, in his own way, and certainly, in

coming to Nan Carter's dinner-party, he had not had any intention of sharing Mrs. Farraday's company indefinitely with four other people. Still less did he intend to be satisfied with a little casual conversation with her himself. When they returned to the large double drawing-room, after dinner, there was a tendency to split up into couples. Nan Carter, as hostess, was the only one who could have arranged things otherwise, and she was much too easily swayed by the atmosphere of the moment to take a strong line. Besides, for all her glib gossip about "Sonia's friends having to see to it that she did nothing silly," she dearly loved a little romantic intrigue. And, provided "nothing really happened," as she would have put it, she was flattered and pleased to provide a perfectly respectable setting in which dear Sonia could enjoy a romantic flutter. She was, therefore, quite content - or almost so - to let Toby Carrick monopolize her own attention. And unfortunately, Andrew Urquhart was genuinely interested in Anne and showed every disposition to keep her to himself. Mrs. Farraday and her cousin were thus, quite naturally, left together, and there was nothing at all remarkable in their presently strolling into the other half of the drawing-room, in order to inspect some painting about which he had spoken. Still less was there anything even remotely questionable in their sitting down there to discuss well, whatever subject followed naturally from the examination of the painting. Uneasily, Anne tried to keep her attention on what her companion was saying. As she had sharply told Nan Carter, it was not her intention to spy on Mrs. Farraday, nor to act as some officious brake on her. Only there

was Gerald Askew, monopolizing her, leaning a little towards her and talking with that half-smiling, half- earnest air which was so engaging. Anne stole a surreptitious glance in their direction. He didn't look as though he were employing any persuasive arts. But then he would hardly betray himself to any observer by his manner. And she was looking restless, Anne thought, and troubled and uncertain. Mrs. Farraday was not usually uncertain in her manner. She knew exactly what she wanted, and was very capable of getting whatever that was. Now she looked as though she hardly knew where to take a stand. And - "She's hovering perilously between two courses," thought Anne anxiously. "She just doesn't know what she wants. And he's doing his unscrupulous best to make up her mind for her. If only this tête-à-tête business could be ended!" She looked across at Mrs. Carter, but her hostess was agreeably employed in giving her views on the ballet to an entirely acquiescent Toby Carrick. There was no help there! With an attentive smile, which she now felt must be almost permanently painted on her face, Anne tried to give the impression of taking her fair share in the conversation with Andrew Urquhart. But she realized just how badly she was doing this when at last he said, with real concern: "Am I just boring you, or aren't you feeling very well? Because you're not really hearing anything I'm saying, are you?"

"I'm - terribly sorry—" Anne felt unutterably abashed, sought for some adequate excuse, and suddenly found, not only that, but also the means of breaking up the tête-à-tête between Gerald Askew and Mrs. Farraday. "One fib more or less hardly matters now," she thought impenitently, and, pressing her hand to a head which really did ache rather with worry and nervousness, she said: "It's very tiresome of me, but I really have a frightful headache and and don't feel a bit well." "I am sorry! Can I get you anything? Would you like me to speak to Mrs. Farraday?" ("Really, he says all the things one wants!" thought Anne with almost passionate gratitude.) "I hate to trouble her, but - if you would - be so kind—" "Of course!" He brought her a glass of wine first, and, under his anxious gaze, she sipped it nervously, hoping that her air of faintness was convincing. Anne had never fainted in her life, being an extremely healthy young woman, and she was afraid her performance was rather amateurish. However, having ascertained that she was not preparing to collapse on the spot, he left her and went into the other room, while Anne leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes with real relief. If only Mrs. Farraday would not see through this pretence! If only Andrew Urquhart would not be too considerate and offer to take her home! "What is it, Anne?"

Mrs. Farraday's voice spoke just beside her, and at least the tone had friendly concern in it. "Oh" - Anne's eyes flew open - "I'm awfully sorry, Mrs. Farraday -1 don't know quite what's the matter—" "Perhaps it's been an upsetting evening," Mrs. Farraday said, and Anne thought she was not referring only to the scene with Gregory. "Would you like to go home?" "I -1 should rather," Anne confessed. And then she saw that, if Mrs. Farraday cared to call in the kindly assistance of Andrew Urquhart, her own unwanted presence could be easily disposed of, without any alteration in the situation between her employer and Gerald Askew. Anne was so vexed at the realization that she had presented a doubleedged weapon to Mrs. Farraday that the tears actually came into her eyes. And then Mrs. Farraday's beautiful voice said quietly, "I'll take you home." And Anne was astonished to find that she had great difficulty in not crying in real earnest, with sheer relief. "Th-thank you," she stammered. And then, in her character of pathetic, half-fainting victim, she lapsed into silence and left Mrs. Farraday to arrange everything. This went very much against the grain with anyone as used to taking responsibility as Anne was. But it was the only thing she could do. Mrs. Farraday, however, seemed perfectly capable of managing the situation. She it was who silenced Nan Carter's over-concerned protests and exclamations, and she it was who accepted Andrew

Urquhart's immediate offer to drive them both back to the hotel, since the hired car had been ordered for a much later hour. Gerald Askew, Anne thought, must have made some sort of lowtoned protest, because she heard Mrs. Farraday say, a little sharply: "Nonsense, Gerald! She's always such a good child to me. This isn't much to do for her." And she was divided between gratitude and a sense of guilt. Nothing could have been kinder than Andrew Urquhart's handling of the situation. He made Anne lean on his arm as he took her out to the car and, generally, showed so much concern that she blushed for the success of her deception. Fortunately no one put on the light in the car, so she was able to lean back in silence and conceal her condition of perfect health. Only once did Mrs. Farraday bother her with conversation, and that was simply to ask: "Are you feeling better now?" "Yes, thank you. I'm sorry to have spoilt everyone's evening like this." "It doesn't matter," Mrs. Farraday said. And they were silent after that until the hotel was reached. Fortified by the thought that her "act" was almost over, Anne managed to maintain her air of languor while Andrew Urquhart insisted on accompanying them upstairs in the lift and right to the door of their suite. Then, alone at last with Mrs. Farraday in their sitting-room, she sank into a chair with a sigh of genuine relief. "All right now?" inquired Mrs. Farraday.

"Well, it's - nice to be home." Anne thought she had better not concede more than that.. "No, I didn't mean that. I meant - are you completely recovered, now that there's no need to keep it up any longer?" There was dead silence between them. And then, slowly, Anne lifted her eyes and looked across at her employer. "There was nothing really the matter, was there?" Mrs. Farraday said quietly. "No, there was nothing really the matter," Anne admitted - and waited for the storm to break. It seemed to her that the silence lengthened and lengthened quite unbearably. She was not sure whether to expect a torrent of angry reproach, icy dismissal, or; furious contempt for her clumsy interference. "How - did you - guess?" she asked timidly at last. "I've been genuinely ill too often not to know the sham article," Mrs. Farraday told her dryly. "Then, if you knew, why - why did you appear to be taken in? Why did you agree to come home with me?" The telephone bell rang sharply, and Mrs. Farraday got up to answer it. "Perhaps," she said, speaking over her shoulder to Anne, "perhaps I was not averse to being given a reason for leaving the party too." Anne was speechless with astonishment. Whatever she had expected, it was not this. She could only gaze in bewilderment as Mrs. Farraday

picked up the receiver and listened, at first casually, and then, suddenly, with deepening and anxious attention. "No, it's not Anne speaking," Anne heard her say. "It's Sonia Farraday—Oh, Murray! is that you? - What did you say? What sort of an accident? - Don't prevaricate! Do you mean it's serious? Well then, I'll come at once. - What? I can't help it if the last train has gone. We'll come by car. We should be there some time in the early hours of the morning. - No, of course not. Tell him I'm coming." Anne watched her curiously. The languid invalid, the capricious, rather spoiled beauty, had both completely vanished. Mrs. Farraday was, at that moment, a quick, self-reliant, determined person, making lightning decisions and certainly in no doubt of what she wanted. "It's Bob—" She turned from the telephone to speak to Anne. "There's been an accident. He was cleaning his gun and shot himself - at least, that's what Murray says. You'll have to pack at once. Ring up the car people and say we must have* a car right away, to go a journey of a hundred and forty miles. And then see about the hotel bill. Be quick now, there's a good girl. Thank heaven we came home early!"

CHAPTER NINE THE next hour was one of breathless, but ordered, haste. With what her fellow guests that evening would have thought miraculous speed of recovery, Anne was immediately ready to carry out all Mrs. Farraday's instructions with accuracy and despatch. Within the hour, everything had been packed, the hotel account had been settled, and the car was standing at the entrance, waiting for them. Just as the London theatres were beginning to empty their crowds into the warm summer night, Mrs. Farraday and Anne started their long journey homeward towards Midchester. Not until then was there any real chance of conversation. "Mrs. Farraday, is it very serious?" Anne took her employer's hand in hers, as though there had never been any interruption to their friendly relationship. "I don't know. Murray said our own doctor was there but that he wanted a second opinion. It was while they were waiting for the other man to come that Murray decided to telephone us. He expected to speak to you first, and had some absurd idea of your preparing me for the shock. As though I were not myself the right person to tell when my own husband was ill!" "He only wanted to spare you any extra—" "Oh, yes, yes, I know! Everyone always wants to spare me something, as though I were a child or a lunatic. Why can't they let me take a few normal knocks ? I never needed anyone to live my life for me. I'm sick of being pampered and sheltered. If they hadn't made such a fool of me, I shouldn't—"

She stopped abruptly, and Anne, finding it difficult to make any tactful reply, remained silent. Then Mrs. Farraday said, much more quietly: "I'm sorry. I'm behaving like a child now. I'm afraid I'm rather nervous and jumpy." "It doesn't matter a bit." Anne affectionately squeezed the hand she was holding, and was glad to feel an answering pressure in return. "Of course you're nervous and anxious. Anyone would be. But we'll be home in a few hours, and very likely things are not so bad as you fear. It doesn't take two doctors to decide that a case is very serious, you know. Your own doctor would have been able to decide on that for himself." This was not, Anne knew, a very sound argument, but the further tightening of Mrs. Farraday's hand on hers acknowledged at least the desire to comfort. They drove on in silence for some while after that. Then Mrs. Farraday spoke again, almost under her breath. "If Bob dies, I'll never forgive myself." "But, my dear - " Anne had forgotten the difference in their ages. She was simply one woman speaking to another sadly anxious one. "You mustn't feel like that. It was an accident. You weren't even there. You can't be in any way to blame." "I should have been there. I shouldn't have left him." Anne bit her lip. She wanted to point out that few people were better able to look after themselves, in the ordinary way, than Bob Farraday, and also that Mrs. Farraday had left him many times before

during their married life. But she thought she knew what Mrs. Farraday meant. "Please don't reproach, yourself," she begged earnestly. "Your visit to London was a perfectly understandable indulgence. Mr. Farraday didn't at all mind your going, once he thought it would do you good." "No. I know, I know, but - " Mrs. Farraday paused. Then she said deliberately, "How far did you know I was making a fool of myself, Anne?" "But you - didn't, in the end, did you? That was the point," Anne reminded her gently. "Well, so far as doing anything irretrievable was concerned, no - I suppose I didn't make a fool of myself. Only sometimes I think that that thoughts and words can be worse than deeds." "On the other hand, they don't do anything like so much irreparable harm," Anne said practically. "Oh, Anne, you're a good child! You even quarrelled with your nice, obtuse fiancé because of me, didn't you?" "Gregory isn't obtuse," Anne declared, rather indignantly. "I - I deliberately misled him. It wasn't his fault." "No, it wasn't his fault. It was mine." Mrs. Farraday sighed impatiently. "I'll explain to him some time." Anne privately thought that she herself would do the explaining. But she knew Mrs. Farraday meant her offer kindly, so she patted the hand she was holding, and then leaned forward to ask the driver how much longer they were likely to be.

"We shan't be there much before two o'clock, miss," the driver told her, "but I'll make the best time I can." "Thank you." Anne sat back again, and presently the motion of the car and the lateness of the hour combined to make her sleepy. It would be very, very nice to have everything explained between her and Gregory come to that, it would be lovely to be home - to see everyone again— Afterwards, Anne supposed she must have dozed, because in what seemed to be an amazingly short space of time, they were passing through the silent, moonlit streets of Midchester, and then following the country road out to Benham Lodge. Anne roused herself. "I'm afraid I was asleep," she said a little confusedly. Mrs. Farraday turned her head and gave her a quick, wan smile. "Why shouldn't you? It was the best thing you could do. I didn't even apologize for depriving you of your night's rest, I'm afraid." "Oh, that doesn't matter. - Did you sleep at all?" "No," Mrs. Farraday said, and stared out of the window with very sleepless-looking eyes. There were lights burning in the front of the house when they arrived, and Anne said: "You go straight on in. I'll see to everything."

Mrs. Farraday nodded. And as she went up the steps, Anne saw the door open, and Murray received his mother quite literally with open arms. Feeling strangely at a loose end, now that the immediate object of their hurried journey had been accomplished, she wandered into the drawing-room, which looked curiously unfamiliar by artificial light and with its heavy green and cream damask curtains drawn across the big windows at the end. With a sigh, she sat down, noticed that the beautiful French clock on the mantelpiece said almost half-past two, and smothering a yawn, decided that it was indeed true that this was the hour when one's vitality was at its lowest. She felt depressed and pessimistic. It had been a dreadfully wearing evening, even before the hurried journey through the night. And now, for the first time, she had leisure to think just how unfortunately she and Gregory had parted. She would soon be able to make explanations, of course - by word of mouth, instead of letter now, which would be an advantage - but in the chilly silence of this unnatural hour the explanations seemed rather thin even to her. Suppose Gregory did not choose to accept them? Suppose she had done some irreparable harm to the happy relationship which existed between them? "But what else could I do?" Anne thought. "And, anyway, as it turned out, it was the right thing to do." But she leant her head on her hand and felt very dejected. And that was how Murray found her when he came in search of her ten minutes later.

"Anne! My dear child, come and have something to eat. You must be starving and exhausted." He spoke with all the warmth of an old friend, and, taking her hand, drew her to her feet. "Mother has told me how wonderfully good you've been to her. I can't tell you how grateful I am." "I haven't done anything at all out of the ordinary," Anne assured him. "No?" He smiled. "Well, she says she'll never forget all you've done for her tonight. And it isn't often that Mother pays a tribute like that." Anne coloured slowly, and at the same time she felt a warm tide of happiness creep into her rather chilled heart. "It was very sweet of her to put it that way," Anne said gently. "Now, please tell me - how is your father? Is it very serious?" "Not so serious as we feared at first. The bullet was very near the heart, that was the trouble. Maconachie didn't feel prepared to take the responsibility of extracting it without the opinion of another man. But the job had been done - and done quite successfully - before you and Mother arrived." "And there's no fear of collapse?" "Well, that's what we have to be careful about. But he has a splendid constitution, you know. He's resting now, and Mother is there, in case he wakes. I can't persuade her to go to bed." He frowned worriedly. "Let her have her own way over this," Anne said gently. "It's very, very important to her."

Murray glanced at her curiously. "He is very important to her," Anne amended thoughtfully. "Maybe she hadn't realized quite how important until tonight. We're all a bit apt to take the very familiar people for granted. A shock like this sometimes emphasizes their value. It isn't nice to have to contemplate the cold, inescapable fact of losing them." "Yes, of course that's true." He did not question her further, and Anne was glad. Instead, he insisted on seeing to it that she made as good a meal as the odd hour warranted, and then said: "I'll take you up and show you your room." "My room?" Anne looked at him in sleepy inquiry. He laughed. "You poor little thing" - no one had ever thought the capable Anne a poor little thing before - "you're almost asleep, as it is. You don't suppose you were expected to sit up for the rest of the night, do you? Come along. Your room has been ready half an hour or more." Anne came very willingly, stumbling a little with fatigue. And when Murray took her firmly by the arm, that seemed to her a very good and proper arrangement. They went upstairs together, and Anne noticed that the door of the first room they came to stood ajar. She glanced inquiringly at Murray and he nodded. "That's his room," he began in a whisper. And then the sound of voices from the room made him grip Anne's arm in suddenly

sharpened attention. They both paused, not with any intention of eavesdropping - only with the hope of being reassured. But it was not Mr. Farraday's voice which spoke first. It was Sonia Farraday who said in tones of anguished intensity: "Bob, I must know the truth! It was really an accident, wasn't it? - or wasn't it?" Anne caught her breath sharply, realizing at last what agonizing thought had been in Mrs. Farraday's mind dining all that terrible drive home. And then her husband spoke, with surprising energy. "Don't be ridiculous, Sonia!" and he sounded affectionately irritable. "Whatever else should it be - attempted suicide? You ought to know me well enough by now to know I'm not the suicidal type. Besides, why the hell should I want to commit suicide?" Anne and Murray exchanged a relieved glance. And then Mr. Farraday spoke in a rather different tone. "Now come along, stop being a silly girl! There's nothing on earth to cry about. I'll be as right as rain in a couple of weeks." "Poor darling!" Anne whispered, and smiled. "They'll be all right now," returned Murray, also in a whisper. "Come on." But when they reached the door of Anne's room, he turned her to face him. "Was it rather touch and go in the last few days?" he asked frankly.

Anne made no pretence of not understanding him. "I think she'd made up her mind, even before your telephone call came through. But anyway, it doesn't matter now, does it?" "No," he said, "it doesn't matter now." And, putting his arm round Anne, he hugged her with unexpected simplicity. "Thank you, Anne. I hope you know how grateful we all are." Anne felt both amused and touched. She could hardly believe that this was the forbidding Murray Farraday, for whom she had once had so much awe that it was all she could do to bring herself to address him. But apart from that, she was genuinely moved to think that, in a fumbling amateurish way, she had really done something to preserve some very delicately balanced happiness. "It's quite all right." She patted his arm a little awkwardly. And then they said good night - though, in point of fact, the first morning light was coming - and Anne went into the beautiful, chintzhung bedroom which had been prepared for her. Even then, tired though she was, she sat on the side of the bed for a few moments and thought - not of Mrs. Farraday and the dangers she had escaped, nor even of Mr. Farraday who might have been dead by now - but of Murray Farraday, putting his arm round her, and speaking as though she were a dear and valued person. "I'm so glad I went to all that trouble," Anne thought. "I'm glad I insisted on going to Nan Carter's and I'm even glad I lied a little - it was excusable. And, though I'm not glad that I angered Gregory, at least I think it was right in the circumstances. But it will be wonderful to have things straight with him again."

And on this thought she finally slipped into bed and immediately fell deeply asleep. It was late in the morning when Anne woke, and the sun was streaming into the room, picking out the bright colours of the chintz and casting patches of pure gold on the cream carpet. At first she was not quite sure where she was. Then it all came rushing back, in a stream of confused recollection and, raising herself on her elbow, she saw that it was not far off lunchtime. So she got up, dressed, and went downstairs. The house was very quiet, and she guessed that, not only was the patient sleeping, but Mrs. Farraday was taking some rest at last. From the terrace, she saw Murray strolling in the garden, in the sunshine, and, quite naturally, she went out to join him. "Hallo!" he smiled as she came up with him. "Had a good sleep?" "Yes, marvellous, thank you. Did you get much rest, in the end?" "Oh, quite sufficient," he assured her carelessly. "Short nights don't trouble me much." Anne stooped to stroke the cat, who was making a shameless bid for attention. "How is your father this morning?" "Going on very well. There's a nurse in attendance now, and Mother has been persuaded to go to bed." "I'm very glad. She won't be wanting me today, will she?"

"No, of course not. I expect you'd like to go home after lunch, wouldn't you?" "Yes, I should, please. The family don't even know I'm back." "Wouldn't you like to telephone?" Anne smiled and shook her head. "No, thank you. It will be more of a surprise for them if I just walk in." "As you like." He sounded amused. "I'll run you down after lunch." "Oh, you needn't, really! I'll get a bus—" "You'll do nothing of the sort. And anyway, the Sunday bus service is the very deuce." "I'd forgotten it was Sunday," Anne confessed. "It just doesn't seem like any special day, does it?" "I should be at the office if it weren't Sunday." "Would you? - Well, yes, I suppose you would, in spite of your father's accident." "I couldn't let that keep me away," he assured her with a grim smile. "Not now that there's no immediate danger, I mean." "No - I suppose not." She looked at him with interest. "You have to work terribly hard, don't you?" "Of course. Why not?"

"Oh, no reason why not. Only people are apt to think that rich men take things easily." He laughed. "There's a frightful lot of responsibility too, isn't there? Sometimes you look—" "How do I look?" he inquired amusedly, as she paused. "Well, as though you have almost too many things to harass you. You get tired lines round your eyes and—" "Blow off a fit of temper. Isn't that what your sister used to tell you?" Anne smiled. "True?" she inquired. "Oh, perfectly true," he admitted. "I think you're very good-tempered, on the whole," Anne asserted firmly. "Ninety-nine times out of a hundred I'll be reasonably goodtempered," he conceded. "Then the hundredth thing makes me blazing mad. And it's usually quite a small matter, so that everyone feels very shocked and injured and says, 'Fancy Mr. Farraday creating hell's delight over a little thing like that.'" Anne laughed, partly in sympathy, partly at the excellent imitation he gave of one of his staff complaining virtuously. "I think most of your staff are attached to you, Mr. Farraday."

"If you're worrying about my wounded feelings, you need not," he assured her. "I can bear it, even if they aren't attached to me. I'm a business man and I—" " - Don't pay them for anything connected with their private lives. I know, I know. You've told me that one before." Anne smiled at him rather impertinently. "When did I 'tell you that one'?" inquired Murray, with surprise as well as amusement. "The first time I spoke to you and you were so horrid to me," Anne told him. He considered that, without amusement this time. "I remember - Was I very horrid to you?" "Very," Anne assured him. "You made me feel as though I'd been put through a mangle." "Anne, I didn't, did I?" He drew her arm through his, with an air of genuine concern. "I'm damned sorry." He frowned. "You chose the very worst moment, you know. It was at the end of a fiendish day, and I had to take out some girl I didn't like, and was keying myself up to be agreeable." "You hadn't got very far, had you?" Anne said, and he laughed. "All right - I suppose I deserved that." They strolled towards the house together. "Is it too late to say that I'm sorry now?" he inquired. "Oh, no. But it's quite unnecessary," Anne assured him. "Of course you're sorry. Nice people are always sorry when they know they've worked off a bit of temper on some innocent person.

But we all do it occasionally. It's human nature. Don't think about it any more. Besides, you more than made up for it the next day." "Did I, Anne? You really are telling me quite a lot about myself that I didn't know." "Why, of course you did. When you rang me up and I came to your office and you offered me the post with your mother - that was because you were sorry about sacking Sara and being horrid to me, wasn't it?" He gave her an extremely quizzical smile. "I hate to shake your faith in the beauty of my disposition," he said, "but it was nothing of the sort. I was prompted solely by the belief that you would suit my mother admirably." "O-oh." "Sorry," he told her with friendly malice. "Another illusion gone?" She laughed and slightly pressed the arm she was holding. "Oh, it's all right. I know you well enough by now, anyway." "What does that mean, exactly?" "Why, that I know quite well what sort of man you are, without having to rely on what you would call early illusions." He gave her an amused glance. Perhaps he was wondering just what sort of man she did think he was. But he left the subject there, and they went in and had lunch together.

Afterwards, having ascertained that both his parents were still resting, he told Anne that he was ready to drive her down home whenever she liked. It was a beautiful early autumn afternoon, with that faint, golden haze over everything which means that the beauty of high summer is past and the long, mellow decline of autumn has set in. And, sitting beside Murray in the car, Anne reflected that there was always something slightly - though not unpleasantly - melancholy about the change of one season to another, or one phase of life to another. A sort of "never quite the same again" feeling. "You're very quiet," Murray said. "What's worrying you?" "Oh, nothing!" Anne replied quickly. Then she thought of Gregory and added, "At least—" and then stopped. He waited in silence, a little as though he expected her to tell him. And after a while she did, explaining how she had felt it was of overwhelming importance that she should accompany Mrs. Farraday to the Nan Carter dinner-party, and that even Gregory had not been able to make her feel differently. "Not that I mean she was going to rim off with Gerald Askew that night, or anything melodramatic like that," Anne said. "Only it was just one of those times when, given a clear field, he would have made any amount of trouble. One doesn't know just how much." "And you risked a major upset with your fiancé because of that?" he said slowly. "Oh, not a major upset," Anne countered quickly and a little apprehensively. "Gregory was very cross and - and, I'm afraid, hurt. But he'll understand when I explain. And I expect I shall have a

chance to do so right away. He was expecting to come back home today, anyway. I'll ring him up the moment I get home. I expect he caught the morning train from town, so he'll be back by now." And then they arrived at Barrowmead. Anne reached for her case, but he smiled and took it from her. "No - I'll bring that in for you." She glanced at him rather shyly. "Would you like to come and meet my mother?" "Very much." Anne found her key and let them both into the house. "Anyone at home?" she called, standing in the hall, and looking round with some pleasure. It was nice to be back! "Yes, I am." Pansy came rushing out from the dining- room. "Anne! How lovely!" She embraced her sister. "Why didn't you let us know you were coming? - And hello, Mr. Farraday. How is my Mr. Farraday?" "He's going on all right now, thank you," Murray said. Pansy looked startled. "How d'you mean? Has he been ill?" "Oh - " Murray glanced at Anne. "He had a bit of an accident and—" "Do you mean a street accident?"

"No, no. He was cleaning his gun and got shot." "Shot!" gasped Pansy in a tone of melodramatic intensity. "Why, he might have been killed!" "But he wasn't," Anne pointed out, with a composure which Pansy considered callous. "And he's going on very well now, so don't get excited. Where all are the others?" "Mother is out in the garden, and Richard went for a cycle ride and Sara is out with Gregory." "Out with - Gregory?" Pansy nodded. "Oh." Anne experienced the oddest sensation of dismay which had nothing logical about it at all. And then Pansy said candidly: "Why were you horrid to poor old Greg in London? It must've been something pretty fierce, because he got on the next train and came straight back home last night. I heard him tell Sara so. And anyway, he turned up here first thing this morning." "Oh, it - wasn't anything much. Just a misunderstanding," Anne explained hastily, and she coloured a little, because she was very conscious of Murray standing there. "Come on out into the garden and meet Mother, won't you?" she added, turning to him. Mrs. Brendall was delighted to see her daughter once more - and not the less delighted because she was in company with "the most important man in Midchester." No one could be more charming than Mrs. Brendall when she liked, and Anne saw that Murray was both amused and intrigued by her.

This was fortunate, since Anne herself felt singularly disinclined for light conversation, her thoughts being altogether too disturbing. Not that there was really any need to worry, she felt sure. Still less to feel - well, jealous about her sister going out for the day with Gregory. When she herself was not on the spot, what could be more natural than that Sara and he should go off for a drive? It was only that she wished the explanations need not be delayed any longer. She wished that she could have seen Gregory and had a talk with him before he saw any other members of the family. And she wished she did not feel that he must have been very, very angry indeed to speak to anyone other than herself about the friction there had been between them. No doubt it had been nothing more than an impulsive remark or two, almost inevitable, when he was explaining why he had returned from London so soon and without seeing her for more than a few minutes. But, even so— With an effort, Anne forced herself to pay some sort of attention to what her mother and Murray were saying, and to contribute to the conversation her, own account of the events which had led up to the sudden return of herself and Mrs. Farraday from London. Pansy, agog for all sensational details, kept up a running fire of dramatic exclamations and rather irrelevant questions. But her affectionate concern for "her" Mr. Farraday was so palpably sincere that no one had the heart to reprove her or to refuse her the information she wanted. "Are you quite sure he is going to be all right now?" she asked anxiously.

"Quite sure," Murray told her kindly. "At least, as sure as one can be in a case where danger has existed at all." "Will you give him my love?" Pansy, who was not a sentimental child, was very much in earnest. "Indeed I will," Murray promised, and ruffled her hair, with a faintly surprised smile. Perhaps he was wondering how his rather overbearing father could have captured Pansy's affections so completely. "You shall come and see him as soon as he is allowed visitors." "Oh, thank you!" Pansy exclaimed fervently, while Mrs. Brendall remarked, a little complacently: "You mustn't let Pansy make herself a nuisance." Murray exchanged an understanding smile with Pansy. "She isn't a nuisance," he said. And then he bade Mrs. Brendall goodbye, and Anne had to accompany him through the house and out to the car once more, hoping anxiously that he would make no reference to Pansy's gratuitous information about Gregory and Sara. Perhaps he guessed that expressions of sympathy or concern would be unwelcome at the moment. At least, he made none. Only, when he was seated in the car, with his hands actually on the wheel, he smiled at Anne through the open window and said, half teasingly: "When you first came to see my mother you told her that both your elder sister and your mother were much prettier than you. It's quite true, of course. They are. But I still think that, in making his choice, your Gregory showed himself to be a very sensible young man."

And with a friendly wave of his hand, he drove away, leaving Anne to look after the car with a half-gratified, half-amused expression. It was very sweet of him, really! It was his way of telling her not to worry, she supposed. And, with a considerably lighter heart, Anne went back into the house. It was delightful to have tea in the garden at home again, even if one did do all the fetching and carrying oneself. Besides, it was undoubtedly pleasant to be the centre of things, with an interested parent, and a passionately interested little sister listening attentively to the account of her adventures. When tea was over, Anne - with a certain amount of spasmodic assistance from Pansy - carried the things back into the house again. And it was when she was setting down her last trayful on the kitchen table that she realized someone else had come into the house. Quickly, Anne pushed open the kitchen door and went through into the front hall. As she did so, she saw that Sara was just mounting the stairs - rather slowly and wearily, in a manner quite unlike her usual quick movements. "Sara! - Hello." Her sister turned, with a slightly startled air, and looked over the banisters at her. "Hello, Anne. I - didn't know you were coming home today. When did you get here?" She sounded upset rather than surprised. And, to her extreme dismay and astonishment, Anne suddenly realized that her sister had been crying.

Tears were such an unheard-of thing with the self-sufficient, wellcontrolled Sara that Anne experienced a sense of something almost like disaster. "Sara! What on earth is the matter?" She came close to the stairway, and for a moment the two girls looked at each other in silence. A curiously pregnant silence, Anne thought. Then Sara suddenly tightened her lips, as though she were making a decision in defiance of something or someone. "Come upstairs with me," she said, quietly but urgently. "I must talk to you, Anne. And I don't want the others butting in."

CHAPTER TEN SLOWLY Anne followed her sister upstairs and into her room. Anyone who knew the Brendall family at all would have known that this was Sara's room. Charming, slightly untidy - because her careful attention was always given to herself rather than to her surroundings - and extremely well equipped with everything needed to make a pretty girl prettier. A few admirably chosen cosmetics on the dressing-table, a very large wardrobe where everything could hang full length and uncrushed, and not for Sara the deceptive half-mirror which gives a reassuring view of head and shoulders while concealing the faults of hemline or ankles! A full-length mirror stood between the two windows, so that whoever was reflected in it had to face the battery of ruthless lighting before being passed as ready to go out and face the world. But of all this Sara was oblivious, for once. Usually her first impulse, on entering the room, was to give herself an automatic, though critical, inspection in the mirror. Today she just slumped down on the side of the bed, and sat there absently smoothing out the fingers of the gloves she was still holding. Quite cold with apprehension, Anne leant against the door and looked at her for a few moments. Then she came forward and sat down beside her. "Tell me what's the matter," she urged. "There's something very wrong, isn't there?" Sara nodded. "I suppose that's how it will seem to you. I don't know what I feel about it myself - it's so difficult—" She stopped. And then, almost

irrelevantly it seemed, she said, "Anne, just how fond are you of Gregory?" "Sara! - What makes you ask that?" "Because it's rather important - to all of us." "All of us? - To you, do you mean?" Sara nodded, and there was a long silence. Then at last Anne said, in a strangled little voice: "You and Gregory have been out all day together, haven't you?" "Yes. It was a perfectly innocent day out in the car—" "Sara, don't be silly! Of course I know that." "Oh—" Sara caught her breath on a little gasp of relief. "You do understand that I didn't mean -1 hadn't the slightest intention of - of poaching on your preserves. It was just that—Well, you quarrelled badly last night, didn't you?" "I suppose it might seem like that," Anne agreed slowly. "At any rate, Gregory was awfully upset, wasn't he?" Sara nodded. She was recovering her poise a little now. "Anne, I'm not criticizing and I'm not asking questions, but you made Gregory feel very badly used and - angry. Don't think that he came telling tales to me. He didn't." "How did you know, then?" Anne asked - but mechanically rather than angrily.

"Well, of course, when he appeared back much sooner than we had expected, I naturally asked why, and he didn't seem to have much explanation to give, only he was obviously fed up and - miserable." Anne glanced curiously at her sister, who had never before shown very keen perception about other people's unhappiness. "And when he said he was sick of his own company and asked me to come out for a run in the car - I went." "Yes - of course." There was another short silence. And then Sara said again, "It's so difficult—" "To explain what happened next, you mean?" Sara nodded, and Anne found that she was feeling very sorry though in an almost impersonal way - for her pretty, casual, not very sensitive sister, caught for the first time in an emotional crisis. It was hard, somehow, to associate her own affairs with this problem which Sara found so much difficulty in explaining. It was impossible to regard herself as the injured third party. In that moment, she felt so much older than Sara that it seemed natural that she should put aside her own personal feelings and try - as she would have done, had any man other than Gregory been involved - to help her to make her explanations and understand what had happened to her. "I suppose," Anne said, carefully keeping her voice quite unemotional, "that you naturally spoke again about - about his not seeing much of me while he was in town. And perhaps he even said he just couldn't understand what had happened, and asked you if you'd ever thought of me as being - capricious." "Something like that," Sara agreed. "I think, maybe, he said more than he meant to at first."

"Of course. One always does," Anne said without rancour. "And then what happened?" "Anne, it wasn't that we - he was running you down or anything. He was just trying to understand why - well, why things had got to this pass. And he recalled the fact that you never seemed really to have any time for him, and he seemed frightfully dejected and said he wondered if you really cared much for him, after all." Anne studiously avoided Sara's eyes, and rather nervously passed her hand backwards and forwards across the counterpane. "Well, why don't you say something?" Sara cried at last. "How long have you been in love with Gregory, Sara?" was what 'Anne said. "Since long before he asked you to marry him." "Sara!" This was something Anne had not expected, and she looked up quickly. "It's true," Sara said, sadly rather than defiantly. "But, darling, I had no idea!" "No, of course not." Sara actually laughed a little. "You don't suppose I'd let you know that, do you? - Not when it was you who were going to marry him." "I'm surprised that you managed to hide it so well." "So am I, a little," Sara said grimly.

"Were you - terribly unhappy?" Sara shrugged. She was not very articulate where her feelings were concerned. "Does Gregory - know?" Anne passed the tip of her tongue over rather dry lips. "He does now." "You mean" - Anne swallowed nervously - "there was some sort of showdown today?" "Anne, it's no good pretending about it. I don't know how it happened - something to do with his being upset about last night and my feeling furious about someone else - even you - treating the man I wanted badly. Anyway, all his doubts and worries just boiled over, and I said more than I should. I'm not defending myself, except to say that most girls would have given themselves away in the same circumstances. No one has ever found me understanding or sympathetic before, because I'm just not. But - but Gregory seemed so glad of a little sympathy and it was only natural to try make him feel less miserable. And he said it was funny that I always had time for him and - " Sara stopped, apparently a little surprised herself to find such a flow of words at her command, after all. Anne got up and went over to the window, where she stood looking out. What could she say about her "never having much time" for Gregory? How could she upbraid her own sister because she had had time for him? Someone had once said that you always found time for

what you really wanted to do - and perhaps that was the final test which showed what really mattered most to you. If she had loved Gregory more, would she have sacrificed the family to him? - let Mrs. Farraday go her own foolish way? - pushed everything aside so that the one beloved person would not have felt hurt or slighted? It was impossible to say now. And, anyway, it hardly mattered. The situation which had suddenly arisen cancelled out anything which had gone before. That was the point from which they had to start now. Without turning round, Anne asked: "How does Gregory himself feel about it?" "In what way?" Sara's voice sounded startled and uncertain. Not at all like herself. "Why, Sara - to put it crudely - he can have either of us. Which does he want?" There was a long silence, and then Sara said quietly, "Me." Anne caught her breath. In spite of all that Sara had said to prepare her, the categorical statement of fact came as a shock. A few months ago, she would have thought it perfectly reasonable that Gregory should prefer Sara to herself. Indeed, she had not been able to understand, then, why he had not. But - now! Now he was her fiancé, the man she was going to marry, Gregory with whom she had planned for the future. She could not imagine how this thing had happened. Why, he had often spoken in goodnatured criticism of Sara - grumbled because she managed to get her own way so often. Now, even that seemed to be something of a

virtue! At least, he counted it to her credit that she always had time for him, while Anne - reluctantly - had studied her family's interests, as well as her own - and his. Was that the rub? Had she made him feel neglected and unimportant? Did he feel that last night was simply the culmination of a series of slights? Where was the chance now for those glib and easy explanations which she had intended to make to him? What, indeed, did they matter? They could only embarrass him and put him in the wrong. She turned slowly and faced her sister. "Does Gregory want - want to see me about it?" "Oh, no! We - he - didn't really mean to tell you anything about it - " "Didn't mean to tell me? But how could he avoid telling me? What did he intend to happen?" Sara pushed back her bright hair and sighed, with the strain of having to explain not only her own motives, but those of someone else too. "Anne, it wasn't just a case of his feeling mad with you last night, and considering that he had a right to go off and make love to another girl. He still doesn't understand your attitude - and nor, I must say, do I. But he's expecting that there'll be some sort of explanation, and he still considers himself - well, bound to you, unless you release him. He didn't mean to come out with the fact that he really loved me, I think he discovered it for certain only today. We found ourselves just - just telling each other, before we knew where we were and - " "It couldn't just happen like that, in a minute!" Anne tried not to sound as distressed as she felt.

"No, I don't expect it did. In fact, as I've told you, with me it was always there. But I suppose with him too it's been coming, over the last few weeks." The weeks when she had been so deeply engaged on other affairs, and then not even on the spot! For a moment, Anne felt overwhelmed by the bitterness of sheer regret. Then she tried to make herself see the situation clearly and honestly. If Sara were really the one Gregory loved, surely it was better for all of them that they should find it out now. It was useless to allow oneself the indulgence of thinking - "If I had done so-and-so, he would never have felt like that. There fore--" No one could say now which was cause and which effect. Perhaps if she had acted differently, he would have felt differently. But she had acted the way she had because she was herself, Anne Brendall. And no wishing or regretting could make that different now. She had behaved in the way that was characteristic of her - and that was not the sort of girl he loved. "I'd better go and see Gregory," she said abruptly, having arrived at that point. "What are you going to say to him?" Sara sounded most unfamiliarly alarmed. "I don't know," Anne said, and that was the truth. "Anne, don't tell him - I mean, he'll never forgive me or understand, if you tell him that I - that I told you about today. He'll think I tried to force your hand. And I didn't! At least - " Sara passed her hand over her face rather wearily. "I don't know whether I was trying to force your hand or not. Only it seemed crazy to me that Gregory should go on with this marriage if you didn't very much care and he was only

doing it from a sense of duty, when, all the time, a little plain speaking would put things right." "Yes, I see what you mean." "Anne, are you very - angry with me?" "No, Sara! Of course not. I'm not - I'm not angry with anyone. We can't any of us help the way we feel. And I think it was very - good of you to hide your feelings so well and - and take such apparent pleasure in my engagement, rather than spoil my happiness at that time." "Thanks, but I don't feel I can take much credit for that now," Sara said dryly. "After all, I've - spoilt your happiness now, haven't I?" "No." Anne frowned. "It's not fair to put it that way. If you and - and Gregory love each other, it would have been no kindness to let our engagement go on, and - " "Anne, there's one question you haven't answered, in all this discussion." "What is that?" "How much do you love Gregory?" Once more Anne turned away and looked out of the window, so that Sara should not see her face. For in that moment she realized that she could, if she liked, give her sister and Gregory their happiness intact, or she could dim it with a faint breath of guilty regret which perhaps would never quite leave it. If she justified her behaviour of last night, they would know that she still loved Gregory and would feel that they had both misjudged her and injured her. But, as it was, they thought - indeed, they probably

hoped - that her unexplained capriciousness in London meant that she cared less for Gregory than she had supposed. It was the perfect way out. And, with a slight sigh, Anne took it. "Not quite so much as I thought, I'm afraid," she said slowly. "I suppose I should have been a good deal longer coming to that conclusion if - if it hadn't been for what you've just told me. But, as it is - " She turned round again, with an expressive little gesture of her hands, and saw that Sara looked relieved beyond measure. "Oh, Anne! If I could really think that! - If Gregory really thought that - !" She didn't add "Then everything would be all right," but that was obviously what she meant. Anne smiled faintly. "I'd better go and see Gregory," she said again. And this time Sara made no protest. Anne went to her own room, slipped on a coat, and then went downstairs and out of the house. She was glad that she met neither Pansy nor her mother. At the moment, she had no wish to answer anyone's questions. As it was, she thought with reluctance of having to face any other member of Gregory's family too, and she was sorry that she had not telephoned to him first and asked him to meet her somewhere else. However, it was too late now. And anyway, she wanted, if possible, to give a casual, almost unpremeditated air to the meeting. And then, as she turned off into the lane which formed a short cut between Barrowmead and the district where Gregory lived, she saw that, for the first time in all this unfortunate affair, fate was being

kind to her. For coming towards her, with a rather purposeful air, was Gregory. She knew the exact moment when he saw her, because he checked suddenly in his stride, and then came on at an increased pace. "Why, Anne!" His tone was embarrassed, rather than annoyed, she noticed. "Where on earth did you spring from?" "I - we came back last night. Mr. Farraday had an accident, and though he's going on all right now, we didn't know how serious it might be at first." "I - see." No painful feeling of anxiety for Mr. Farraday prompted him to inquire further, evidently. "I - I was coming over to see you, anyway," Anne began, something of her nervousness showing in her voice. "I wanted to apologize for last night and - " "Oh, that's all right, Anne. It was silly of me to dash up to town without phoning you first." He seemed more placatory than she at that moment. "Anyway, you said there was an explanation - " He paused, and there was something rather questioning in the silence, as though he now invited her to make that explanation. "D-did I say that?" Anne was appalled. "Well, at least, you insisted that you couldn't help making the decision you did, and you implied that you would explain why. You said you'd write." "Oh, yes - yes, of course." Anne bit her lip. She had forgotten this further complication. She searched her mind for some harmless

explanation, found none, and realized that she could not allow herself the indulgence of any justification at all. Gregory continued to look expectant, though not, Anne thought, joyfully expectant. "Oh, Gregory, you're going to think very badly of me, I'm afraid," she said at last, and her real distress lent a certain amount of local colour to her pretended contrition. "There isn't any real explanation. I mean - it was entirely my own choice. I just wanted to go to Mrs. Carter's place and—" "Rather than go with me?" "It was so unfortunate that it was just that evening," Anne murmured. "Yes, I see that. But there have been other evenings, haven't there, Anne? I mean, it wasn't the first time you found time for someone else, but couldn't find time for me." With difficulty Anne kept herself from replying indignantly to this, with all the powers of justification at her disposal. "You're trying to say that I treat you badly, aren't you?" was all that she could allow herself. "I'm trying to say that you treat me as though I don't count so very much to you, after all," he said soberly. "Oh!" There was an agitated little silence. Then Anne said, without looking at him:

"Sometimes people make mistakes, Gregory - about their feelings, I mean. It's - it's always very difficult to say so, in so many words, but—" "But it's better to say it frankly, don't you think?" She wondered if she really detected a note of hope in his voice, or whether she, just imagined it. "Yes, I think it is. And, in a way, it's been made easier for me, because I've been talking to Sara and—" "To Sara?" "Yes. You mustn't mind about that. Because what we had to say was - was a relief to both of us." She was surprised at the amount of conviction she managed to put into that. "You mean that she told you—?" "Look here, Gregory, she saved me the unpleasantness and embarrassment of having to tell you that I had made a mistake, because she very sensibly let me know that you had made a mistake too. It was much the best thing to do. I don't want you to think that I was showing off last night, or trying to make myself unpleasant on purpose, or anything small-minded like that. But I suppose the brutal truth is that, if I had loved you as much as I should - or as much as I once thought I did - then there wouldn't have been any question at all about where I should have wanted to spend the evening." Gregory took both her hands and deliberately turned her to face him. "Are you telling me the truth, Anne?" "Why, of course, Gregory!"

And, for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she really were. If she had really loved Gregory quite desperately, would she have hurt and slighted him for any reason at all ? Perhaps it was that moment of self-revelation which enabled her to return his anxious gaze quite steadily. "Bless you! I believe it is the truth!" exclaimed Gregory. And he kissed her with all the fervour of a man reprieved, contrary to all expectations. "Oh, I say, do you mind my kissing you now?" "No, of course not." She laughed, and found that she could do that almost without pain, because at least she had Gregory's affectionate approval once more. But the next move did hurt - only it had to be faced. A little fumblingly, she drew off her ring and held it out to him. "Oh, Anne, I'd like you to keep it!" he exclaimed impulsively. "I couldn't do that, you know. Not when you're marrying my own sister," she reminded him gently. "Oh, no. No, I suppose not," he agreed. And, flushing, he accepted the ring a little awkwardly and thrust it into his pocket, rather, thought Anile sadly, as though he never wanted to see the thing again. "Well—" They both spoke together, and then stopped and laughed nervously. Neither knew quite what to do next. Both were beginning to feel selfconscious again and to wish that the interview were over. And then it dawned on Anne, with a sickening little wrench of the heart, what it was that he wanted to do. Very naturally, he longed to

go and see Sara. Probably he had been on his way to her when she met him. Well, it was very little sacrifice to add to all the rest. She could surely find a way of making herself scarce. And, on a sudden impulse, she said: "I think I'll catch the bus from the corner and go up to Benham Lodge. I'd like to know how Mr. Farraday is going on." "Yes. Yes - of course. I hope it's nothing serious." Gregory could even find benevolent sympathy in his heart for Mr. Farraday now. "He accidentally shot himself while he was cleaning his gun," Anne explained mechanically. "I think he's out of danger now." "Rough luck," said Gregory with all the perfunctory concern of one whose mind was on more important things. "Let me come and see you on to the bus." "No, Gregory, don't bother." She spoke hastily, because she had suddenly come to the point when she felt she simply must escape and be by herself. "I - I shall have to run to catch it, anyway. Goodbye now, and - and though this has been difficult, I'm terribly glad we have things straight at last." "I'm glad too." He managed to keep some of the fervour out of that, but she guessed how he must be feeling. And, with a determinedly gay wave of her hand, she ran off along the lane, on her way to the bus stop. The bus reached the bus stop at almost the same moment as she did, which was fortunate. Because - although, being a polite country bus, it would probably have waited for her anyway, instead of joyfully giving her the slip, in the manner of town buses - Anne was thankful

not to have an aimless wait, during which she could have done nothing but pursue her own melancholy line of thought. There were not many people travelling at that time on a Sunday evening and, sitting alone in the front seat, she was able to allow herself, if not tears, at least an expression more in keeping with her present misery than the bright air which she had to assume for Gregory's benefit. During the last hour she had been so deeply concerned with the necessity of managing a delicate situation that she had had little time to realize how unspeakably her whole life had been altered by the day's events. Now she had leisure to consider the future. And a sad, denuded future it was. However much her mind had been occupied with other affairs during the last few weeks, always, at the back of her consciousness, had been the sense of happiness and security which her engagement with Gregory had given her. Even when things had gone very wrong, she had always been able to think, "But this won't be for long. Soon I shall be marrying Gregory and starting on my own lovely future." Now all that was changed. She could - and probably would - keep on telling herself that, if Gregory really loved Sara, it was better to find that out now. But it was a very negative sort of comfort. What she really wanted to find out was that this was all a mistake - a bad dream, and that Gregory's ring was still on her finger, with every right to be there. "Benham crossroads!" shouted the conductor, as though aware that his solitary passenger needed to be recalled to present circumstances

by a more than usually stentorian bellow. And, jumping up hastily, Anne got out of the bus. As it rattled off again along the dusty road, leaving her alone, she became aware of the glowing, summer evening peace which surrounded her. "This is a lovely piece of country," thought Anne, vaguely comforted. "And I'm very lucky to have my work at Benham Lodge. I like them all so much. They're like—Not like the family, exactly. But they seem to belong to me." She even felt equal to a slight smile as she reflected how astonished both the men would probably have been at this view. And, as she walked up the sloping drive towards the house, she somehow felt less forlorn - as though here, at least, she had a place. At least, she reflected with some surprise, it was the place to which she had naturally turned when home seemed temporarily out of the question. As she turned the last bend in the drive, Murray came out of the open front door and down the steps to meet her. "Hello, Anne! I thought it was you I saw from one of the upper windows. What brings you back at this time of day?" "I - just felt I should like to know how your father is, and - and make sure that your mother didn't take any harm from her long journey last night." "My dear, how very kind of you." He actually took her arm, as he strolled back towards the house with her. "You could have telephoned, instead of coming all the way up here personally." "Oh, I just happened to catch a bus quite conveniently. And - and anyway, I thought I'd like to see Mrs. Farraday, if she's rested."

"I'm sure she'll be delighted to see you. She says you're the family's guardian angel - and I'm not sure that she isn't right." He laughed as he said that, but those bright, usually hard eves rested on Anne for a moment with curious gentleness. "Your mother is much too kind about anything I've been able to do for her," Anne said earnestly, but she flushed with pleasure. "Well, take it, at any rate, that Barrowmead is not the only house where you are appreciated," he retorted lightly. "Were the rest of the family very delighted to see you home?" "Oh - yes," Anne said carefully. "And" - his glance became rather teasing - "most important of all, the injured Gregory received your explanations satisfactorily?" "Well—" Anne had not quite expected this, and was unprepared. "Well, he isn't angry about last night any more." "So that everything is all right again, eh?" There was silence. "Um? Tell me," Murray said rather imperiously, and, taking her other hand, he drew her round to face him. It was her left hand, and something in the feel of it must have struck him as being different. Those uncomfortably penetrating blue eyes left her face suddenly and, raising her left hand, he looked at it.

"Good God!" he said - and for the first time that Anne could remember, he sounded profoundly shocked. "Your engagement ring is gone!" "Yes, I know. I—" "What's happened?" "It's really quite a personal affair. I'm sorry. It's not your business, and—" "Of course it's my business!" He spoke impatiently. "You don't suppose I'm going to allow him to think badly of you because you were busy clearing up our family troubles, do you?" "It-it wasn't that." "What was it, then?" "He - he prefers someone else," Anne said, and began to cry. "He what? - Oh, you poor baby, don't do that!" And suddenly Anne found herself drawn into the circle of Murray Farraday's arms, and she found that it was not only perfectly natural to be sobbing on to his shoulder, but very, very comforting too.

CHAPTER ELEVEN "THERE now! You've cried quite long enough," Anne heard Murray's voice say, just above her head, and she thought for a moment that he sounded curiously as his father had when he had been comforting Mrs. Farraday. "I'm - sorry." Anne checked her tears, and, to her complete astonishment, Murray dropped a kiss on the top of her head and said: "Come along - tell me all about it," as though he were her natural confidant and had every right to know. "There's not really - very much - to tell. It's just that - he loves Sara instead." "Good lord .'What a fool!" "Oh, Mr. Farraday, he isn't!" "Of course he is. My dear child, if the ridiculous fellow is so dumb as to prefer your sister to you, then all I can say is that you've had a lucky escape." Anne laughed uncertainly. "Most men prefer Sara to me," she said, rather naively and without any rancour, because it was a simple fact in her opinion. "I don't think you're very good at knowing what 'most men' think of you," he told her with a certain hint of amusement in his tone. "Shall we go into the house?" Anne then became aware that she was standing in the middle of the front drive, with Murray Farraday's arms still round her.

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, in slight confusion. "Let's go in. And please don't - don't worry about me or anything. I don't know really why I cried. Except that there hasn't been any opportunity to until now." "I'm flattered that you should think me a suitable person on whose shoulder to weep," he told her a little teasingly. But he got a rather wondering look in return for that, and, catching his breath on a slight laugh, be said: "What does that mean?" "What does what mean ?" "The way you looked at me just then." "Oh, I think I was surprised to realize how - how—" "Very suitable I was for the purpose?" Anne smiled and squeezed his arm suddenly. "If one has to cry, you're a very nice person to cry on to," she admitted. And she thought that his answering laugh sounded unusually gratified. They went into the house together, and he said: "Wait a minute, and I'll go up and see if Mother is in her own room or with my father." Left alone, Anne went into the drawing-room and, taking out her powder and lipstick, did her best to make herself look less as though she had been crying, and more as though she had come to pay a cheering visit.

"Ridiculous of me to cry like that," she murmured, rather disconnectedly. "But how nice he was. Funny I'm not scared of him any more. I suppose it's because I'm used to him - and know he likes me. It's true, he does like me. Well, I like him, of course. In some way, we talk the same language. He's easy to say things to." That was something she would never have believed, on that first evening she had spoken to him! Smiling a little, she examined her reflection in the mirror, and decided that she had removed most of the traces of her previous distress. It would never do to let Mrs. Farraday know just now about the broken engagement. She would be sure to think she had had something to do with it. "I shan't stay long," Anne decided. "Just look in and say a few words and—" But when Murray came downstairs, it was to say that his mother was delighted to hear that Anne was there, and would she please come upstairs? Rather to her surprise, he said: "You know your way, don't you? She's in her own sitting- room." And then he left her to go upstairs alone. Anne tiptoed past Mr. Farraday's door. But, when she tapped softly on the door of Mrs. Farraday's room, she was surprised at the energy and gaiety of the voice which bade her "Come in." "Darling, how sweet of you to come back to see me!" exclaimed Mrs. Farraday, who was usually very sparing of her endearments. And, when Anne crossed the room to her, her employer drew her down and kissed her.

"Have you had a proper rest?" Anne asked, rather tenderly, because, though Mrs. Farraday was looking very attractive in her long, graceful housecoat, she was also looking very pale. "Yes, I'm perfectly all right. I slept most of the afternoon, and I haven't even got dressed, as you see." And she leant back against the cushions of her sofa and smiled at Anne. "Bob is going on splendidly. Find somewhere to sit down, dear." She gestured vaguely towards a chair, but Anne drew up a soft humpy and sat down close beside the sofa. "So everything is all right?" Anne found herself smiling almost indulgently at her employer. "Yes, everything is all right with me. But how about you? What's this I hear from Murray about your engagement?" "Oh! He shouldn't have told you!" exclaimed Anne. "Why not?" "Well - you mustn't think it - the breaking of it, I mean - had anything to do with the - the scene yesterday evening." "Heavens! Was it only yesterday evening?" Mrs. Farraday said with a little grimace. "I know - it seems quite a long time ago, doesn't it?" Anne agreed with a sigh. "Well, tell me what happened." Like her son, Mrs. Farraday seemed to think that Anne would naturally confide in her. Indeed, Anne thought with a faint smile, she asked much more direct questions than Mother would have dreamed

of doing. But then, of course, Mother had three daughters with whom to concern herself, and Mrs. Farraday - dear, pretty Mrs. Farraday hadn't any at all. "There wasn't really very much to it," Anne admitted. "It was just that - that he wasn't really in love with me at all. It was my sister, Sara." "Dear me! Then he gave a very convincing imitation of it yesterday evening," Mrs. Farraday commented with some asperity. "What was he doing, presuming to be jealous and possessive about the way you spent your time, if all the while he was paying court to your sister at home ?" "Oh, he wasn't, Mrs. Farraday!" Anne was deeply shocked. "Well, how did all this happen, then?" "Why, you see, he wasn't very happy about the way I - I didn't always consider him first and - I couldn't, Mrs. Farraday. I had most of the responsibility of the family affairs on my shoulders," Anne broke off to explain. "Quite apart from the fact that you were busy looking after my affairs for me too," supplemented Mrs. Farraday a little mockingly. But she gave Anne's cheek a not unkindly pat. "All right. Like most men, your Gregory disliked being second. What then? - He consoled himself with the devoted attention of your sister instead?" "I don't think," Anne said with a faint smile, "that Sara would give devoted attention to any man, exactly—" "Wise girl!" murmured Mrs. Farraday reflectively. "But she did happen to be in love with him. She told me so today. It was the first I knew of it, because she really behaved awfully well.

You must understand that," Anne insisted earnestly. "None of us guessed for a moment that she loved him, and it must really have been a great blow to her when Gregory asked me to marry him. But she managed to hide all that, and she was sweet about my - my happiness at that time." "Hm," commented Mrs. Farraday non-committally. "But it was to her that your Gregory went for consolation, after you had bruised his feelings and vanity." "I don't think his vanity came into it anywhere," protested Anne a little indignantly. "A man's vanity always 'comes into it,' dear," Mrs. Farraday asserted dryly. "Anyway, he went to your sister for consolation." "It wasn't quite like that. He was a friend of all the family. It's been like that for ages. If I were not about, it was quite natural for him to seek Sara's company." "And, while passing his time in this very natural manner, he discovered that he was engaged to the wrong sister?" inquired Mrs. Farraday, with that little air of friendly malice which, she knew, became her so well. There was silence for a moment. Then Anne said, rather diffidently but doggedly: "Mrs. Farraday, you should know that it's quite possible to think oneself in love with someone, and then discover, almost in a matter of minutes, that one has made a tragic mistake." She was a little frightened when she had said it, particularly as the silence lengthened uncomfortably, but she would not wish the words unsaid.

And at last Mrs. Farraday said: "Very well, Anne, I accept the argument. Perhaps your Gregory was no more foolish and vacillating than other people have been. The great thing is to - find out in time." "I'm sure it is!" Anne knelt up suddenly beside the sofa, and flung her arms round her employer. Mrs. Farraday seemed slightly startled by this demonstration of affection. Then, as though yielding to a moment of unusual emotion, she kissed Anne and said with a sigh: "You are a dear child. I wish you were mine." "Do you?" exclaimed Anne, more touched and flattered than she had ever been in her life before. "How very, very nice of you to say so!" , Mrs. Farraday laughed, and ran her finger lightly down Anne's cheek. "Not at all. I've sometimes thought you're one of the few girls I could bear to have as a daughter-in-law," she said. But whether she intended that as a joking compliment or as a half- truth it was difficult to say. "Oh!" Anne blushed, for some reason. "What an odd thing to think." "Why?" "Why ?" repeated Anne, as though she thought the strangeness of the remark were surely self-evident. "Well, for one thing, because I'm not a bit the sort of girl Mr. Farraday would - would want to marry." "Sometimes I wonder if you're really quite stupid or unusually clever," was Mrs. Farraday's astonishing comment on that. "There,

run along now. This hasn't been such an unlucky day for you, Anne, as you might think." Anne got slowly to her feet, and stood looking down at Mrs. Farraday. "Why do you say that, I wonder?" Mrs. Farraday pressed back among her cushions, and smiled up at Anne, almost roguishly. "Because, darling, I don't think Gregory was at all the man for you. For all your sweetness and softness, you need someone who will ride you with a much tighter rein." "I do?" "Yes, of course. You and I have very little in common, Anne. But what we both have is a quality that makes most people leave us to make the decisions," Mrs. Farraday said, still smiling. "There is one thing which we find endearing above all others in the men we finally choose, and that is - that they insist on making the decisions for us. The novelty of it charms us. That's why our type sometime makes the mistake of marrying a domestic tyrant. Don't do that, darling. But marry a man who knows how to make you do what he wants, on the few occasions that really matter. On all other occasions, of course, you will do what you want," she added, as an engaging afterthought. Anne laughed. "Tell me where I can find this paragon, and I'll see what I can do about it," she said lightly. "They exist." Mrs. Farraday gazed at her thoughtfully. "Let me remind you of the most comforting of all reflections. That there are as good fish in the sea, etcetera—No, no, today was not such a bad

day for you. Now good night, darling. Go and get Murray to drive you home." And she kissed Anne, and dismissed her with an air of being rather well satisfied with life. And well she might be, thought Anne, with a rueful little smile which, however, had no envy in it. Her affairs had turned out very well in the end. She was safe back in the home circle of which she was the adored centre - if she chose to be. She had skated on thin ice, and left it just before the fatal crack came. And, because she had been so very near disaster, she savoured the familiar joys and treasures with a heightened sense of appreciation. Yes, no wonder she looked happier and more contented than Anne ever remembered seeing her look before. If Murray had not been actually waiting for her, at least he appeared very opportunely, as soon as she reached the bottom of the stairs. "I have the car out," he told her. "I can easily catch the bus—" Anne began. But he interrupted almost impatiently. "Look here, do we always have to have this argument about car versus bus ? Have you any objection to going in my car ?" "No, of course not!" Anne laughed. "It seems a shame to drag you out, that's all. Especially when I arrived up here uninvited." "Don't be silly," was all he said to that. And Anne meekly followed him out to the car. But, when she was seated beside him, she decided to reassert herself a little. So she said, rather severely:

"You shouldn't have told your mother about my broken engagement." "Why not? I thought she would console you a little." "Oh—" Anne was somewhat disarmed by this. "Well, didn't she?" "Didn't she what?" "Console you a bit." "Well - yes, I suppose she did," Anne admitted, suddenly becoming surprisedly aware of the fact that she felt infinitely less dejected than she had when she first came up to Benham Lodge that evening. "At least" - she smiled reminiscently - "she assured me that Gregory was not the right man for me, in any case." "No, of course he isn't," Murray agreed with unexpected emphasis. Anne opened her eyes wide. "Are you now going to tell me the type of man I ought to marry?" she inquired. "No." He smiled thoughtfully ahead. "There's such a thing as correct timing in these matters. I'll wait a bit." "Mr. Farraday, what are you talking about?" "Don't you really know?" "No." "Perhaps that's just as well. Here we are at Barrowmead."

Anne turned to him, half intrigued and half annoyed. "Aren't you really going to tell me?" "No. Ask me another time. Good night, baby." And, most unexpectedly, he kissed her. Anne gasped. Partly at the kiss, partly at the form of address. She was not quite sure whether it was a reference to her youthful foolishness, or a term of casual endearment. In either case, it was very astonishing from Murray Farraday. She thought of saying, in a dignified way, that she had not given him permission to kiss her, but there was a certain gleam in his eye which told her she would be unmercifully teased if she pursued such tactics. So she just said a demure "Good night" and got out of the car. But she sternly repressed any desire to stand and wave to him as he drove off. The house was very silent when she came in. But, as she came upstairs, Pansy's voice hailed her from her bedroom. "I say - is that you, Anne ?" "Yes. What do you want?" Anne came to the door. "Come in a minute." Anne went into the room, to find Pansy sitting up in bed. "Anne, is it really all off between you and Greg?" inquired the exponent of the theory of direct approach. "Yes," Anne said, feeling that such directness merited equal candour in return.

"Oh, dear! Do you think your heart's broken?" inquired Pansy with genuine sympathy, but not without a certain curiosity as to the behaviour of people who found themselves in this interesting situation. "No, I'm sure it isn't," replied Anne briskly. "Goodness! You sound almost cheerful about it," declared Pansy, hovering between relief and disappointment. "Weren't you really—? I mean, didn't you and Greg—?" "Look here, Pansy—" Anne sat down on the end of the bed and smiled admonishingly at her little sister. "It isn't a bit your business. But, in case you're really worrying about us, you'd better know that we had just made a mistake about our feelings for each other." "Do you mean nobody is heartbroken?" Pansy was a good deal shocked. "Nobody is heartbroken," asserted Anne confidently. And, in that moment, she knew that this was the truth. The discovery astonished her so profoundly that she missed Pansy's next few comments. What was it that had happened to her? She had been shocked - hurt - disappointed - perhaps even a little humiliated. But she had not been crushed by a sense of irreparable disaster because of the evening's happenings. She was very, very fond of Gregory. Oddly enough, she knew in that moment that she always would be. But, try as she would to recapture the romantic relationship in which she had once believed, she knew inevitably that she was already beginning to visualize him as a very dear brother-inlaw - as one of the family - almost as an elder brother.

"Don't you think so, Anne?" Pansy's insistent voice pierced her consciousness at that moment, and mechanically she replied: "Yes, indeed I do." "Well then, how are you going to let him know?" "Let whom know?" "Oh, Anne! Murray Farraday, of course. You'll have to do it very tactfully, of course, and find out what he thinks too," declared Pansy, who was apt to reinforce her most emphatic statements by a wealth of "of courses". "What are you talking about?" inquired Anne. "Why, what I said, of course. I said I thought Murray Farraday would make a much better husband for you than Greg, and when I asked you if you didn't think so too, you said indeed you did." "Oh, my goodness! I wasn't paying any attention to what you were saying!" exclaimed Anne. "Don't be such a goose, Pansy." "But don't you think it's a good idea?" pursued Pansy. "No. I think it's just the sort of cock-eyed idea you would have," retorted Anne with unnecessary emphasis. "Now, good night and go to sleep, there's a good child." And she kissed Pansy, pushed her down skilfully under the clothes, and went out of the room. But, once she had gained the privacy of her own room, she stood there, in the middle of it, trying to analyse the extraordinary feelings that were sweeping over her.

It was not that Pansy's absurd query could, in itself, have started such a train of thought. There was more - oh, much, much more! - to it than that. As though Pansy's question had merely brought to the surface a crowd of impressions which had been lying embedded in her consciousness. Crying on Murray's shoulder—No, much further back than that! Hearing him tell her so seriously that she was "a good girl"; watching him when he was so nice with his mother; waiting, almost unconsciously, for that quick smile which could change his whole face; hoping that what she did for Mrs. Farraday would reduce his anxieties and make life easier for him. Why, for weeks now she had been minding desperately what happened to him. When she made that disastrous stand against Gregory and insisted on going with Mrs. Farraday, it had not been only her employer's interests which she had had at heart - she saw that now. What had mattered above everything else was that Murray's happiness should be secured. It was of him, even more than of Mrs. Farraday, that she had been thinking. He was the one she could not have faced, if she had had to admit herself unsuccessful in the attempt to keep Mrs. Farraday from breaking up everything at Benham Lodge. Rather than have to do that, she had risked losing Gregory. And she had lost. And she didn't care. That was the extraordinary thing. Apart from a natural sense of regret and bewilderment at the loss of something which she had grown to regard as precious, she didn't mind now about Gregory and Sara. It was more to her that the Farraday family problem had been happily settled. It was much more to her that Mrs. Farraday had told her she wished she were her daughter. It was much more to her that Murray had

kissed her and used an absurd term of endearment to her. These were the things which mattered. The things which happened between her and the Farradays. "Anne dear, was that you I heard just now?" her mother called softly from the foot of the stairs. "Yes, Mother." Anne deliberately forced her chaotic thoughts into the background of her mind, and ran downstairs to her mother. "I was just wondering if you were feeling like having any supper, dear," Mrs. Brendall said, her tone a nice compromise between the casual and the concerned. "Why, yes, of course!" Anne spoke with a cheerfulness which her mother evidently found a little odd. "I'll see to it," she added hastily. And Mrs. Brendall - no doubt on the principle that hard work was the best antidote to grief - thankfully relinquished the supper preparations to Anne. Neither Sara nor Gregory put in an appearance, and Anne learned that Richard, coming in tired after his day's hike, had had an early supper and gone to bed before she came in. This left her and her mother in such a degree of family intimacy that it would have been absurd not to refer to the subject which was in both their minds. So, after a few minutes, Anne said: "You've heard about Gregory and me, I suppose, Mother?" "Yes, dear, indeed I have," her mother agreed, in tones appropriately hushed for the occasion.

"Well, it's not really a tragedy, you know," Anne hoped she didn't sound indecently bright. "Gregory and I had both made a mistake." (Funny, that what she had been conscientiously saying, for the sake of appearances, was, she knew now, the exact truth!) "Well, of course, dear, if that's really how it is—" "That's the absolute truth. I like Gregory immensely and I always shall. But I'm just not in love with him. And it's Sara' he really loves." "I must say you're very philosophical about it all, Anne." Mrs. Brendall's tone was half reproachful, half congratulatory. "When you didn't come in, I thought you were just wandering about, moping." "Oh, no!" Anne had already forgotten how near she had been to doing just that. "I went up to Benham Lodge." "Did you? How did you get back, with the Sunday service so bad ? Did you walk ?" "No, of course not, Mother I Murray ran me home in the car." "The second time today ?" "For the second time today," Anne agreed. "Oh," Mrs. Brendall said, and looked at her daughter very thoughtfully. But, few though her positive virtues might possibly be, she did number among them the inestimable one of not forcing her children's confidence. So that the only awkward questions Anne had to face that evening were those which she was asking herself.

Not long after she had gone to bed that night, Anne heard Sara come in, and then, after a short pause, come upstairs to bed. And, because she was feeling so much happier and more tranquil than Sara could possibly know, she called softly: "Sara, come in and say good night to me." There was a moment's hesitation. Then Sara pushed open the door and came into the room. Anne had switched off the light some time ago, but warm, summer moonlight was pouring into the room. And, as Sara stood there for a moment, there seemed a soft radiance around her which was partly the effect of the moonlight and partly the half-bewildered rapture which comes only once or twice in any lifetime. "Gregory never made me look like that!" thought Anne without pain. And aloud she said involuntarily: "Oh, Sara, how wonderfully pretty you are!" Sara laughed softly, and came over to the bed. "What a sweet thing for you to say - just now. Anne, you're being an angel about this." "No, I'm not, really." Anne hugged her sister with unwonted emotion. "I've been thinking things over, and I know that, even if you hadn't wanted Gregory, I shouldn't have been able to marry him. I think he's a darling, but I just don't love him." "Is that really the truth?" asked Sara, who was at the stage when she could not imagine anyone not being in love with Gregory. "Cross my heart," declared Anne. And, laughing a little, they kissed each other.

After Sara had gone, Anne meant to lie awake and consider her own feelings impartially. But, because the previous night had been a troubled and broken one, sleep seemed suddenly the most exquisitely desirable thing, and, before she could even wonder how she might keep awake, she had sunk into a dreamless sleep. The next morning, everything seemed distressingly humdrum and ordinary, and Anne set to work with vigour - if no great enthusiasm on the various tasks which had mounted up while she had been away. And - as she was always to remember afterwards - it was in the midst of no less an unromantic task than cleaning the kitchen grate that, suddenly, for no reason whatever, there came to her, in a flash of almost clairvoyant inspiration, the realization that Murray had said something of supreme importance to her the previous evening. She - poor innocent! - had smilingly recalled Mrs. Farraday's assertion that Anne was one of the few girls she could bear to have as a daughter-in-law - she had thought passingly of the way Murray had kissed her and called her by that ridiculous, though rather endearing, term - she had even gone over and over what she and Gregory had said to each other. But the one thing she had not examined was that half- bantering conversation with Murray in the car, when she had said sharply, "Are you now going to tell me the type of man I ought to marry?" And he had said— Oh, what had, he said, exactly! Anne pushed back a loose lock of hair, thereby leaving a black smudge across her forehead.

Something about waiting until the right time. What did he mean by that? Did he mean he would wait until she had had time to get over Gregory? And if so, what was he going to tell her then? He had teased her because she didn't guess what he meant. And then he had finally said that she could ask him another time - And it was then that he had kissed her. Anne jumped to her feet, suddenly aware that nothing - nothing in the world - was more important than that she should know just what Murray had meant. "Mother!" She ran into the sitting-room, where her mother was darning linen and looking very fresh and elegant. "I'm going into town. It's - it's important." "In the middle of Monday morning, darling?" Mother sounded protesting. "And you have a very dirty face, by the way." "Well, I'll wash that," Anne said rather crossly. But, though she did at least stay to wash her face, she wasted no more time in beautifying herself. Indeed, since it was still pouring, there was nothing for it but to put on her old blue mackintosh and a scarf over her head. Not until she was in the bus on her way into town did Anne quite admit to herself what she was doing. For the second time in her life, she was going to beard Mr. Murray Farraday in his own office. It was true that he was much, much easier to deal with at Benham Lodge. But he might not come home that afternoon while she was still there. And, if he did, she might not have any time alone with him. And, anyway, she had to see him now.

At least this time she knew her way. And, avoiding the inquisitive liftman, she ran up the first flight of stairs and entered the inquiry office. Once more she found herself at the highly polished counter, surveying the several girls at their typing desks, but this time she was not attended to with quite such promptitude, for all the girls in the room were discussing some common topic with earnestness and, indeed, a certain air of injured resentment. "And really, if one had been typing what he said" Anne heard one girl declare, "my dear, it would just have been all dashes and asterisks!" "It's too bad! After all, it was nothing serious. And even if his father did go and shoot himself over the weekend, it's not our fault. Besides—" At that moment, without warning, the door into Murray Farraday's waiting-room opened abruptly, and he came into the room. A moment of petrified silence was immediately followed by such a passionate display of industry that, once more, Anne was entirely ignored. It was Murray who, stopping to speak to the nearest girl, suddenly glanced across the room, and saw her. He came over immediately. "What do you want?" he inquired irritably, in a tone that was not at all - oh, not in the very, very least! - like that in which he had last spoken to her. "I - I came to ask you something," Anne said, too startled to say anything but the exact truth.

"To ask me something?" He sounded as though that were the last exasperating absurdity for a poor man to have visited upon him on a wet Monday morning. "Well, come along in." And, raising the flap of the counter, he stood aside to let her pass. Heartily wishing that she were at home once more, cleaning the kitchen grate, Anne preceded him into his office, and heard him close the door behind them both, with something like despair. "Well, sit down. What is it?" he inquired. "I- I don't think I've chosen a very good time, have I?" Anne said nervously. "Not very," he agreed. But he rubbed his chin meditatively and grinned at her, as though his natural good nature were reasserting itself. "Perhaps I - I'd better come another time." She got up nervously from her chair. But he said, "Nonsense," and caught her gently by her wrist, so that she could not get away. She stood looking down at him, as he leant back in his heavy office chair, regarding her with a certain degree of puzzled amusement. And she knew in that moment that no one in the world mattered more to her than the owner of those penetrating blue eyes and that fine-cut, obstinate mouth. If he preferred someone else, she simply couldn't bear it. "Well, Anne?" He looked inquiring. "It - it was about what you said yesterday in the car." "What did I say yesterday in the car?" he wanted to know.

She looked helplessly at him. "You - you said you knew what kind of man I ought to marry, and that I was to come and ask you some time." "And, out of all times in the year, you had to choose the middle of a Monday morning, when an important contract had gone wrong!" he exclaimed, and laughed more than she had ever seen him laugh before. "Oh, stop it!" she cried angrily. "It's not funny. I -1 wish I'd never come." "Why did you come?" he said, and drew her down on to his knee. "I mean - why did it have to be just now, my absurd, adorable darling?" _ "Oh!" Anne said, and hid her face against his shoulder. "Come on! Tell me why it had to be this morning," he ordered, kissing the tip of her ear. "It was the first moment—Well, you see, I was cleaning the kitchen grate and—" . "You were what?" "I was cleaning the kitchen grate—" "And did that remind you of me?" "Oh, no! I just wasn't thinking of anything in particular. And then, quite suddenly, I remembered what you had said last night. And I couldn't imagine why I hadn't understood what you meant by saying you knew the kind of man I ought to marry. But I thought I must come and find out for certain. Sol—"

"—Left the kitchen grate?" "Oh, yes." "Left it half done, you mean ?" "Certainly." "And the preparations for lunch and everything else?" "Yes, of course. You see, I—" "Abandoned the family, in fact, in the middle of Monday morning?" "Why, yes, Murray, but—" "Thank you, darling. I ask for no more telling indication of your devotion," Murray said, laughing, and, turning her face up, he kissed her on her mouth. Not at all as he had kissed her before. Not - oddly enough - at all as even Gregory had kissed her in his most devoted moments. But as though she were something infinitely dear and precious - and his. There was no doubt or questioning about it. And none in the kiss which she gave him in return. It was as though, in that moment, they resolved all doubts and knew, almost without words, what each was thinking. "When will you marry me?" he said at last. "Whenever you say," Anne told him dreamily, and he laughed softly. "When did you first fall in love with me?" she wanted to know. "I haven't the least idea," he said. "Why?"

"Oh - nothing. I thought it would be nice if it had been that very first evening." He grinned teasingly at her. "No. I just thought you a pest that first evening." "Murray, you didn't?' "Certainly I did. But then you had some silly ideas then too. You thought you were in love with Gregory." "Y-yes, so I did." She looked up at him anxiously. "You know that's all over now, don't you? - that I don't mind a bit about him and Sara." "Of course." "I mean - this isn't just a case of - of being caught on the rebound." "No, of course not. I knew it was all right, the moment you started crying on my shoulder yesterday." "Murray!" "Well, it's true. That's why I hopped upstairs and asked Mother to talk some sense to you. It seemed the right moment." "Do you mean she knows? - That she said those things to me on purpose?" "I don't know quite what she said," Murray admitted. "But I'm sure it was said on purpose." And he laughed. "Oh—" Anne looked very thoughtful. Then suddenly she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. "I thought I 'managed' the

Farraday family," she said ruefully. "But it seems that they managed me." "My darling," he told her - and for a moment he was perfectly serious, "the Farraday family are well aware that they would have done very badly without you. In fact, I'm afraid that the only way they are going to get along in future is to make you one of them. Joint management. Is that a bargain?" "It's a bargain," Anne said, and kissed him again.