Return of Simon

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

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

OTHER

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

Many of these titles are available at your local bookseller, or through the Harlequin Reader Service. For a free catalogue listing all available Harlequin Romances. send your name and address to; HARLEQUIN READER SERVICE, M.P.O. Box 707, Niagara Falls, N.Y. 14302 Canadian address: Stratford, Ontario, Canada. or use order coupon at bock of book.

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TORONTO WINNIPEG

Originally published 50 Gmitoffl Wag".

Reprinted 1971 Reprinted 1972 Reprinted 1974 Reprinted 1975

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CHAPTER

ONE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

38

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•

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

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

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

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

i

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

f

CHAPTER TWELVE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ralph ended what he had started. "Z don't suppose he's ever told you that tale. He wouldn't, because it's not pretty. He was white-hot but quite controlled. He had the men shut up, then commandeered the food which had been hoarded by all the well-to-do in the district and doled it ©ut to those who'd had none." "Good gracious," exdaimed Aunt Alison. "I'd no idea men in the intelligence service had to do that sort of thing. Simon's never mentioned it." "It was merety inddental, but similar hazards are going on all the time." Marion sighed. "Get your coat. Pat, and we'll push off for an hour in the boat." Obediently, Pat left them and dimbed to her room. As she pulled on her coat and dropped a dean handkerchief into the pocket, her mind repeated Ralph's bald description. A starving mass of human beings and Simon feeding them and getting them sorted out. How could such a job of work be parallel with his visits to Dolbridge? Ralph must have suggested the comparison for Marion's and Aunt Alison's sake. He knew that they would go to any. lengths rather than take up the challenge to make a trip to the Bristow house. Yet it would be best for both women if they would. It was always better to face the/enemy. Slowly, she made her way down to the hall. The maio i door was open and before going out Pat paused there, yearning to recapture the well-being which this particular scene had previously conjured for her. The gracious sweep of lawn. the chestnuts and more distant cedars, the rhodo» dendrons where the drive curved; and the balm of feeling the haven of the house about her. Craigwood, with its massive rooms and rich panelling, the carved staircase, the priceless pictures, the glittering chandeliers; lovely old furniture, protective walls; above all, fee indestructible spirit of the place. As she stood she heard voices: Marion's and Ralph's. They must be waiting for her on the white bench in the porch. She would have moved out to join them at once, poi had she not been arrested by the mention of her own ha
house ready at Marlsea. Marion's already given up most of her work in London and she only has to make it final. She can take part in local charities. . . ." "That's enough," said Simon. "Let them do their own anravelling. I've had more than enough of other people's! affairs. You'll have enough on your hands, too, my child. You're marrying me a month from now." He tweaked her ear. "And in my opinion a month is far too long to wait." He toudied his mouth to her hair, drew her up with him and held her dose. "We belong together," he said below his breath. Then on an almost savage note, "Darling . . . this is for ever." "'For ever, Simon," she whispered. He kissed her, and the last shadow of pain was gone, because she was vibrant and eternal with love.