Chapter VII

IT had been an extraordinarily happy week for Nevill — though broken abruptly by the girl's death; and when the Thursday dawned that was to take the Bessingtons back to town, he awoke in the mood in which a schoolboy wakes on the last day of the holidays. Yet it was to be a very short term. In a fortnight he was to go up to town and stay there at least three weeks, without Aunt Anna indeed, who had been very resolute about remaining in the country; but with the Bessingtons' flat not further than a couple of streets away. There they would all three spend three weeks at least; there were mysterious legal arrangements to make, and a large number of amusements to be visited. Until the lawyers had been consulted the date of the wedding could not be fixed. October was the month provisionally decided upon.

Immediately after breakfast — again with a schoolboy's determination to make the most of the time — Nevill had unashamedly made his demand, as he followed the three ladies into the hall.

" Enid," he said, " I am going to be quite plain with you. You will kindly go upstairs immediately and make every arrangement that you will have to make before you go. You will be down here again in half an hour's time; and I shall then conduct you to the woods. We shall remain there till it is necessary to return for lunch. And at five minutes past two the motor will be at the door to take you to the station."

" Cousin Nevill " said a small voice.

"Don't bother me, my dear.... I'm talking. Well? "

Enid bowed.

" It shall be done," she said.

Aunt Anna saw them go. She was in the housekeeper's room as they crossed the garden. They disappeared: then she heard the distant clash of the gate.

" I beg your pardon," she said. " I wasn't attending. Yes; the mayonnaise will do excellently, Mrs. Temple-more."

The June weather was justifying its name to the full as the two, ten minutes later, reached the place on which Nevill's imagination had fastened, and sat down. The sky really flamed with blue — there was no other word — so far as they could see anything of it, between the high trees here that very nearly met overhead.

They sat on a bench above the ride that curved round here over the crest of the hill that hung over the lower slopes of the park, with their backs against a small marble monument resembling a flat urn, erected in the glorious Georgian days by Nevill's grandfather to the memory of a favourite horse, whose bones lay beneath it. Beneath them, the ground behind the ride fell steeply down to the flats, clothed in bracken and protected by giant beeches. So far as they could see on either side — as well as behind, if they had chosen to turn round — stretched the green scented gloom of the woods. The air was alive with the hum of ten million invisible flies. Between the trees in front, far across the tops of the pines that skirted the edge of the open park, the melting blue line of the Downs faded, like soft pencilling, into the steady blue of the sky. In one V-shaped gap showed a patch of indigo sea.

After a minute or two Nevill got off the bench, sat down on the ground, and leaned his head against Enid's knee. (It was exceedingly unlikely that anyone would come this way.) Then he felt, as he had hoped to feel, a hand slipped behind his curly hair. The hand began, very gently, to finger the lobe of his right ear.

" Now," said Enid, " we'll begin. I've got a lot to say too, you know."

•" You first, then," said Nevill. " My word! this might very nearly be Frascati again. What a day! "

"Which?"

" Both."

From the farm far across the park beneath them came the shrill crow of a cock.

" I told you so," said Nevill. " There's the cock too. Now he's pecking his hens, I expect. Remember? "

Half an hour later they were approaching the point.

" I think that's really nice of you," said Nevill. " I love to be told my faults. Let's see, I was a little abrupt with Jim this morning; and I really ought to be able to get up when I mean to. You're perfectly right. I'll go to Mass to-morrow — for a penance; and I'll swear to teach Jim tennis this afternoon as restitution. Will that do?"

The fingers delicately pinched his ear again.

" You don't mind my telling you? " said Enid softly. " I never meant to, you know, when I began."

" Mind it?... Go on, tell me some more. I've got lots of faults... I know that — I say, look here "

There was a pause.

"Shall we have a compact?" said Nevill. "You know you've got some faults too. Oh, yes! I can be quite brutal too, if it comes to that."

The finger relinquished his ear for a moment.

" You. don't mind my saying that? " said Nevill a little anxiously.

The fingers again reassured him.

" Tell me them this instant," said Enid.

" I won't till you make the compact. Look here, Tny darling, we're both extraordinarily sensible people, aren't we? — thoroughly wholesome-minded and honest and all the rest. Let's make the compact to be quite plain with one another. But never when either of us is in the least annoyed or upset. We must count ten, so to say, always before speaking. Do you agree? "

" Yes, I think so," said Enid deliberately. " I think that's rather a brilliant idea. You begin."

"Sure?"

" Quite sure. Go on, please."

" Wait. Have you got any more of mine up your sleeve? "

" Two," said the girl, after a moment's reflection.

"What are — No; that's all right then. Because I've only got one against you."

" This instant, please."

"Well. It's about Father Richardson. No; it's not the least what you think."

The soft hand was pulling gently at the short curls now on the back of his neck. It ceased for a moment; then it went on again.

"Well? I'm waiting."

" I think you were rather hard on him yesterday."

"Why! I thought "

" Yes, I know. You were much too nice to him at first. However, I accepted that. I knew it wouldn't work; but I gave in. Then he came to dine on Monday, didn't he? And you were simply delightful to him — all about Rome, and so on. He loved it. He was quite eloquent about it- next day. He congratulated me, really and sincerely, for the first time.... Then, if you remember, we met him in the garden on the Tuesday, and you insisted on him coming with us. I'm sure he never meant to. Then, yesterday, you suddenly turned round on him."

"What did I do?"

" My dear, you withered him! And he really wasn't doing any harm. He really thought it his duty to come up and say good-bye on your last evening. He said so to me afterwards. And you simply turned your back on him! "

The hand was resting motionless now on his collar.

" Well," said Enid. " I really meant to be rather disagreeable. It was a little too much — our last evening. I thought he knew better than that! And he stayed an hour! "

" Entirely your own fault, my dear. He simply can't get away when he once comes. I could have told you that. In fact, I think I did.... Now I'm not in the least objecting — just at present — to your being nice to him; nor to your being nasty to him. But I do think you oughtn't to be first very nice and then, suddenly, very nasty. It's not playing the game."

There was silence.

" I say! You don't mind? "

" My dear boy, I'm very glad you told me. I was only counting ten. I'll remember. I think you're perfectly right. I'll be more careful.... But you know "

"Yes?"

" I don't think I like Father Richardson much."

Nevill gave a little gurgle of laughter.

"What did I tell you?"

" Yes; I know. You needn't triumph any more. I give in. I'm afraid he's not quite a gentleman."

Nevill was glowing with delight. He had been a little nervous about half-way through his criticisms. But how perfectly she had received them! But just a flicker of discomfort came to him at her last words. But he dismissed it.

" And now for mine," he said. " There are two, you said. Give us the worst first."

The hand began on his hair again.

"You're sure you won't mind either?"

" I shall positively kiss the rod."

He twisted his head suddenly sideways, and managed just to touch the slender fingers with his lips.

" There! " he said. " Now go on."

" Well, they're neither at all big. The first is about the servants."

"Eh?"

" Well, Masterson."

" But he's perfectly splendid! "

"Wait: you haven't heard. Nevill, my dear, he isn't respectful enough. He really isn't. He's familiar. Do you remember that... that time when he came to tell us about the accident? " (Her voice trembled a little.) " Well, I know he was excited then. But that wasn't the only time. You asked him for your cap yesterday, in the hall, if you remember. Well; he was simply rude."

" Oh, Lord! " murmured Nevill.

" Don't say ' Oh, Lord! '; it isn't polite." (The fingers pulled his ear sharply. "Ooh!" said Nevill.) "I mean it. I really do. Of course he's an old servant and all that. But really — Well; that's number one."

" But—

" Wait. There's number two now.... Nevill, you know, I simply love your aunt. I think she's wonderful. She's let me call her Aunt Anna, too, by the way."

" You dear! " murmured Nevill.

" Well; and I know all that she's done for you; and how she manages the house and all that. But, Nevill dear, she really is a little masterful."

" Masterful! Aunt Anna! Help! I want to count ten, please."

" Well — abrupt. Oh! I do hate to say this. But it's your fault, you know; not hers. You've given everything over to her; and... and, of course, she takes charge."

" But when do you mean? When was she abrupt? I simply don't know what you mean."

" Well — do you remember when the poor girl — " She stopped. " No; I won't say that. Consider it unsaid, please. Well, I think so, anyhow."

Nevill was silent.

" Nevill, my dear, you mustn't be cross. You're counting much more than ten. You mustn't. That's part of the compact. You don't think it was easy for me to "

Again that round soft voice trembled into silence. And the next instant Nevill was beside her.

" I'm an absolute brute," he said. " And you're an angel to have told me. I really will try to be more — well, dignified, with Masterson. But as for Aunt Anna — well, she's going when we're married, you know. Let's leave her in peace.... There! Give me a kiss, please."

It was with a real physical sensation of constriction in his throat that he watched the motor move off with its dear burden. Enid had flatly refused to allow him to come to the station.

" It's foolish/' she said. " And you look so funny going backwards, too. I don't like you at all, then, my dear. You looked so miserable on the way to Frascati, I remember. Besides, we have to say good-bye sometime; and it's so much easier than at the station."

So Nevill had said good-bye to her in the hall, all alone till Masterson came in.

Then, when there was no more than a cloud of dust in the distance he turned to Jim.

" And now, Jim, tennis! Instantly! "

Aunt Anna said nothing. She slipped, without a word, into the morning-room behind as he spoke.

Three-quarters of an hour later Nevill lowered his racquet.

" Jim, my dear, it's not the very faintest use till you've got the stroke."

They were standing in the tennis-court, Nevill on one side of the net, quite close to it, and Jim under the dedans, on the other. Jim was flushed with exercise, and looked a little weary. He had no conception that tennis was like this: he had imagined that they would hit the ball alternately and make a real game of it. But Cousin Nevill would do nothing of the sort. For half an hour, after a quarter of an hour's instruction as to how to hold the racquet horizontally, at a certain angle, Cousin Nevill had bowled balls to him slowly and bidden him (Jim) to hit them back in the proper way, straight at his (Cousin

Nevill's) face. This had been rather fun for about five minutes, and then it had become distinctly tiresome. He wanted to slash and bang. Besides, the racquet was dreadfully heavy and his wrist ached.

" I...1 think if you'd let me do it my way, Cousin Nevill—

Cousin Nevill jerked his head.

"Look here, old chap; I'm teaching you — not you me. It's not much fun to me, you know. Of course, if you think you can do it better "

Then he raised his eyes, and there was Aunt Anna in the gallery. He had not beard her come in, and shame and compunction seized him.

" Never mind, old man. You've been learning long enough for to-day. Now we'll have a proper game for five minutes."

There had followed a proper game, without any rules at all. Jim slashed and banged, and Cousin Nevill had astonishingly the worst of it. Finally he had fallen prosstrate in a vain endeavour to reach a ball.

" It's no good, old man. You're too good for me altogether. We'll have another go to-morrow."

" Yes, I liked it, rather," explained Jim to his mother overhead. " But — " (Jim discreetly looked round to see if Cousin Nevill really had gone.) — " But, you know, I don't think Cousin Nevill could have been really trying his hardest, you know.... You hold the racquet like this, you see."

He demonstrated to his mother.

It was still very early when Nevill strolled out of the court. But he felt quite certain that he must have solitude; he did not want just now to talk even to Aunt Anna, and next it struck him that it would be very suitable to walk up through the woods again, and — and perhaps go to the seat where he had sat with Enid this morning.

He lit a cigarette as he went.

Again the curious constrained feeling gripped his throat as he stood at last contemplating the seat. The ground was still a little disturbed where he had sat at Enid's feet. He sat there again, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

There came upon him then, in that hour, that amazing sense of the possession of another that comes only to those who love deeply, and still find those depths inexhaustible. It is that one miracle in which none can believe who have not seen and felt: it is the one form of faith that must simultaneously be sight. And it is none the less a miracle that it recurs so often; it is as supernatural as the dawn, as transcendent of law as the beauty of water or the mystery of music; as paradoxical as every final truth.

For the paradox that was burning itself in upon Nevill's heart as he sat here, cheating himself with ecstatic pain into thinking that Enid was still there — only silent — was that he perceived two mutually exclusive facts — his own blinding unworthiness of this girl and his own absolute right to possess her very soul. He had had his first glance into that soul — oh! months and years ago — at the tiresome little tea-party at Rome; and in its tender and beautiful twilight had met eyes that looked into his own with a frankness and a comprehension he had never met before. He perceived now that that had been the moment of recognition between two mates designed for one another from eternity. Then, in the days that had followed — at luncheon in the hotel; at Frascati; in the Catacomb — he had been verifying this — penetrating slowly and reverently into that enchanted realm that was Enid. Then the fire had kindled... and he had understood; and misery that was pure joy came down and enveloped him. During those days he had known nothing, understood nothing; he had lived mechanically, driven by a compulsion that was without him as well as within; till he had spoken to her in a fit of despair, and told her what was in his heart. (That was in the Borghese gardens one morning.) And at the memory of that; and of her answer; and of the shattering knowledge that came to him that he had been right, and that the same kind of relation that she bore to him, he too bore to her — at the memory of that he drew a long whistling breath, and opened his eyes wide again and stared up at the rustling canopy of beech leaves overhead....

Then he began to think over again those last days — watching, a couple of yards away, a little line of earth heave and crumble slowly and deliberately, as a mole pushed his way beneath. (He knew he ought to kill the mole, but he quite firmly resolved he would not.)

Their relations had developed marvellously, he thought; and that development had been the last and final ratification of his heart's instinct. She had opened herself to him, he perceived, in every direction; and in all she had shown herself what he had thought her. How perfectly she had understood the house, for instance — that house, that had been his home all his life and would be hers too, soon; his house with its own particular personality as indidividual as that of a human being — its air, its little ways and moods in sun and cloud. She had seen its three points at once — the hall, the pavilion and the river. He had seen her understanding in her face.

Then there were the people. There was Aunt Anna. Instantly Enid had appreciated her, had noticed her adequateness and her peculiar relation to himself. She had done even more; she had seen and even touched upon, ever so tenderly, the one single little exaggeration in Aunt Anna — her tiny tendency towards masterfulness. He had never noticed that! But he saw it to be perfectly true, now it was pointed out.

Then there was Father Richardson. Well, she had indeed done wonders there; she had gained him over completely by her sympathy with his church, and one or two appreciations she had made. She had been even too successful: she had entirely removed the little soreness that had been between the priest and himself, even too effectively. And then she had seen her lovable mistake, and confessed it. How adorable that was of her!

There was Jim. Well, it was obvious that she had won Jim's heart, thought Nevill. He had been silent always when she was there; yet he had not been able to keep his eyes off her; and Jim was not so easy to please....

Masterson? Well, she was quite right about Masterson, anyhow. Masterson certainly ought not to be quite so abrupt. He would speak to him about it.... Well, perhaps he would not speak to him himself. He would just drop a hint to Aunt Anna, and Aunt Anna would drop a hint to Masterson. He did not want to hurt Masterson's feelings. He was a very old servant, and very loyal, really.

Finally, there was the Compact. And the Compact, it appeared, had, so to speak, signed, sealed and delivered the Contract once and for ever. It really had been an inspiration.

For what else could be wanting in a perfect understanding between two souls, than such an arrangement as this? What possible chance could there ever be of any drifting apart, when each could speak to each quite plainly and quite tenderly, without the remotest chance of misunderstanding? How admirably and triumphantly successful had been the first experiment! She had told him two faults quite plainly, and he had told her one; and both sides had acknowledged the justice of the other's criticism. That would be their safeguard always in future. How could any shadow between them ever deepen into darkness under such an agreement as this? Besides, she, at any rate, hadn't any faults. Really that scarcely had been a fault of which he had spoken; or at any rate it was all Father Richardson's.

Well, then; here they were. The Understanding was perfect. There was not realm or department where the adjustment was not complete.

And he would see her again in a fortnight.... It was all perfect. Perfect.... The mole had ceased his excavations.

He opened his eyes suddenly.

No, he had not been asleep. Only the hum of the insects and the warmth of this dry heathery soil were very soothing.

Who was that looking at him? Why, it was Mr. Morpeth! He scrambled to his feet.

" Why, I believe " he began. And then he remembered. He had not seen him since the funeral of Ella, three days ago; and he had done nothing then except shake his hand for a moment.. What should he say to him?

Mr. Morpeth was in his old grey suit with his old grey hat — the very costume in which Nevill had found him and rushed him across the park in the motor. There was not a line different anywhere, even in his face. He still looked entirely as he had always looked — a retired businessman.

Nevill came forward hesitatingly.

" I am so sorry," he said. " I think I must have been asleep. I'm so glad you're out, Mr. Morpeth."

He felt he was doing it very badly, yet he had not an idea what to say.

The old gentleman smiled naturally and easily.

" I have no kind of business to come waking up my landlord," he said. " I'm just taking a stroll round to the church before tea. It was so hot I thought I would come by the woods."

He moved on, as if expecting Nevill to come with him.

" I'm going home myself," said Nevill. " You won't mind my coming with you? "

" But that is most kind of you," said Mr. Morpeth.

Nevill still felt thoroughly uneasy. Sorrow was an unfamiliar and rather repellent thing to him. His instinct was to talk rather feverishly about the woods, and the tunnels of sun-flecked shadow, through which they were passing downwards towards the house. Yet his sense of what was due urged him insistently to make some reference to his own sympathy for the old man.

He was just approaching an attempt, when the difficulty was taken out of his hands.

" I often walked here with Ella," said the other suddenly. " I hope you will let me remain your tenant for a long time."

" Why, certainly," began Nevill. " But "

" I know you're trying to think of something suitable to say to me, Sir Nevill. But I assure you there's no reason. I am quite content."

Nevill gasped a little. This was indeed plain speaking.

" I can't tell you what I feel," he said. " I — I only wish I could say one half "

" There is no sort of need," said the old gentleman tranquilly. " Though I thank you for your kind thoughts. The thing has happened. It was no one's fault. There is no more to be said."

" The motorists " began the young man.

" I assure you it was not their fault. I have written to tell them so. They were deeply distressed. It was a young horse. But my daughter was an excellent rider."

Nevill wondered whether the man were heartless. But somehow he did not think so.

" Let me be quite plain/' said Mr. Morpeth, with the same brisk and intelligent air. " It is far easier, and then we need not speak of it again. I believe very strongly indeed in God's Divine Providence, and I see that sorrow and death are His most usual instruments. It is natural that it should be so in this world, considering all circumstances. Very well, then; I am content. I am not likely to live very long myself, anyhow. I came down here to get ready to die, and this will be a help to me, I think. Let us say no more about it. And may I beg of you to speak quite naturally to me of my daughter, at any time. She was a very good daughter to me indeed, and I love her very dearly. She was very thoughtful for me, always. And I am afraid I was not always so thoughtful for her. I was trying to make amends, when she died. However, she understands all about that now."

" Yes," said Nevill, a few minutes later, as he met his aunt on the lawn. " That was Mr. Morpeth I was with. He has gone into the church. He wouldn't come to tea."

" Well? " said Anna.

They went up into the pavilion before he answered. He sat down in his old place on the window-seat and began to finger the tassel.

" I can't make him out," he said. " He seemed to me quite heartless. And yet I don't think he is. He talked in a most extraordinary way about his daughter. Do you know him very well, Aunt Anna?"

Anna began to minister among the tea-things.

" I'm beginning to," she said. "What did he say? "

" Well, you know, I was thinking of what I could say to him, when he began himself. He said he was content, and that I needn't trouble to be sympathetic."

Anna smiled very faintly. (She was looking rather overdone, thought Nevill.)

" Yes, I think that's like him," she said. " He's so very business-like about it all, isn't he? He was just like that the day after the funeral, too."

Nevill considered a moment.

" Well, he's made that way, I suppose. By the way, Aunt Anna, he wants to stay on as tenant for a good long while, he said. Of course he has got rights, you know, by the agreement. But what about you? "

" My dear, I'm going to settle near Downside."

Again Nevill paused.

"Are you perfectly certain you must go?"

Anna handed him his tea.

" Yes, my dear. Quite certain."

"Oh!... I say!"

"Yes?"

"Well? What about them? I haven't had a word with you since they went. And we've got those beastly people coming to stay. What time do they get here? "

Aunt Anna said that the new guests were arriving by the six-fifty.

" I can't bear Algy Lennox," said Nevill reflectively.

" And he will think he can play tennis. Well, that doesn't matter. What about Enid? Any remarks to offer? She simply adores you, by the way."

Anna smiled a little, lifting her eyebrows.

" Does she really? Well, I think she's one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen."

" Isn't she! And — and isn't she altogether extraordinary? She's really worthy of the house, isn't she now? "

Anna nodded two or three times.

" Quite," she said.

An hysterical barking sounded from the lawn, and then the sound of adjurations in a boy's voice. Then came a cry of despair.

"Mummy! Are you there? Look out, she's coming."

A whirlwind tore up the steps. Anna hastily leaned forward with protecting arms round the table as Jill burst in, screaming with delight and excitement. Nevill stuck out his leg to save the window-seat and his tea.

" Mummy, I'm so sorry," apologised Jim, coming up the steps. (Jill was out again by now, whirling round the lawn.) " I had her on a string, and she broke it."

" Get a stronger string next time, my dear. She's been tied up all day, hasn't she? "

" Yes, as you told me," explained Jim. " Miss Bessing-ton doesn't like dogs really, I think. And then I forgot to let them out till just now."

"What bosh are you talking now?" inquired Nevill. " She simply loves them."

Aunt Anna made haste to explain.

" Jill jumped up on Enid's dress last night," she said, " just before you came down to dinner. That was all. So I thought they'd better be kept out of the way till she'd gone again. And then Jim forgot to let them out."

" But she didn't like it," said Jim. " Because I was there, and heard her say that "

" That's enough, my dear. Say grace and sit down."

Nevill was silent an instant.

" Did she say she wanted them shut up? " he asked in a low voice.

" No, my dear boy, of course she didn't. And when I suggested it, she said ' Certainly not.' But I thought I'd better."

Nevill's face cleared.

" I thought so. She simply loves dogs and all that. Jim, my boy, you mustn't pass rash judgments. How would you like Jill to jump up all over your clothes? "

" I like it very much," began Jim. " Oh! there's a trout! Cousin Nevill, will you come and catch a trout directly after tea? "

She sat still, when the two had gone, ten minutes later, Jim speeding across the lawn to get the rod and the brown fly-hook from Charleson, and Nevill down the path westwards towards the bridge.

When at last she heard Jim's footsteps across the lawn, and presently, leaning forward, was rewarded by a nod from him as he staggered along outside, carrying the rod carefully in both hands, with its point carried before him, spearwise, to avoid the branches, and with a landing-net slung over his shoulders; she shifted across to the window-sent, whence she might be able to see, perhaps, the beginning of the campaign.

Yes, there was Nevill, just visible at the curve of the river, on the opposite bank, hands on knees, watching the water. Then she heard Jim's steps again on the bridge, and he came into sight. She saw Nevill lift a hand in warning. The figures were clearly visible against the green of the distant woods, and beneath the golden light of the evening sky. It was a perfect evening.

Then she began to think.

Honestly, she had formulated no conclusions which she could really trust, except that Nevill was very deeply and sincerely in love with Enid. That was undeniable. She had seen, again and again, during these last days, a look in his eyes that was unmistakable. He was fond of herself, she knew that well enough; she might even say that he loved her; but the two emotions had really nothing in common but their name. He did not look at her as he looked at Enid. Tiny changes, all but imperceptible except en masse, showed in his face as he looked at the other; when he looked at herself it was just the frank, honest, workaday affection of a son for a mother, as, indeed, it ought to be. Well, she had that conclusion fixed and docketed and established. What of the others?

Now Anna long ago had reached the point of self-knowledge in which she could judge of her moods and sentiments as if they belonged to someone else. For instance, she always refused to find fault with anybody, even interiorly, between midnight and ten o'clock next morning; because she knew perfectly well that both sleeplessness and sleep, between those hours, slightly perverted the judgment. Sometimes, even, she would refuse to pass any judgments before lunch, because she had learnt how unreliable these might be.

Next, then, she was aware that Jealousy — (there was no other word for it) — had quite distinctly begun to insinuate itself into her soul immediately she heard of the boy's engagement, and that it had considerably increased its influence on her during this last week. She was perfectly furious with herself; but there it was. There had come moments during those last days when she had been forced to go up to her room and lock her door: if she had not done so, she knew that she would have given some sign of what was happening within her. It was this humiliating discovery that had finally decided her that the Dower House would not do. She must not be so near: there was no knowing, not only what misery she herself might fall into, if she lived there, but what a disturbing element she might not be in Hartley itself.

Very well, then; she was jealous. Then how could she possibly trust to any of her own intuitions or judgments in respect to the person of whom she was jealous? All the conceivable efforts she might make after detachment were not enough; she could never know if they were really successful. She might only too easily commit a grave injustice, in entire sincerity.

For her judgments of Enid had been very sharp indeed.

First, she was convinced that the girl was the most dangerous kind of sham — the most dangerous, because in all probability the girl did not know it herself. For instance, there was Enid's statement that she loved the country and outdoor things, and, above all, the whole of that element of which " outdoor things " are the symbol. It was extremely probable that Enid really did think that she liked those things and was of that kind of temperament. Yet what about that very sharp, though quite courteous annoyance of hers when Jill had jumped up on her dress last night? Aunt Anna had been quite truthful just now: the girl had said that she did hope that the poor dogs would not be sent to the stable; and yet Anna saw that that was exactly what she wanted.

Then there had been the religious atmosphere — that general attitude to interior things all round which Nevill had said was the one thing that mattered — that attitude of which breeziness and a love of solitude and quiet and so forth, are significant departments.

Well, Enid had not said much on that, though Nevill had, upon his first home-coming; but what she had said, once or twice, when alone with Anna, showed quite plainly either what Enid thought of herself, or at least wished other people to think of her. It was a type Anna had met with before — a kind of Christianized pagan mysticism, a sense of being in touch with fundamental things, of being beneath dogma, and yet fully tolerant of it. Nevill had laid great stress on that element in Enid, she remembered. Well, it was not a bad attitude: it was better than narrowness or dogmatic intolerance! Yet, if that were geunine in the girl, how was it that Anna had caught in her face a look of unmistakable contempt on the night that Father Richardson had dined with them, and had explained very carefully to the company exactly what was De Fide on the doctrine of Eternal Punishment? Of course he shouldn't have done it; but, if Enid was genuine, she should not have felt, still less shown, even for that fleeting instant, so sharp a contempt.

Finally there was the element of cruelty — and this was the worst of all — which she thought she had detected.

She had first noticed it with regard to the girl's mother. Mrs. Bessington had been talking one evening in her usual manner, and had flowed on, uninterrupted, for minute after minute. Then, suddenly, Enid had given a little mirthless laugh. (Nevill was not in the room.)

" You haven't had one full stop," she said, " for four minutes by the clock. I've been timing you. Nevill put me up to it."

Mrs. Bessington had stopped dead. Enid had eyed Anna fleetingly and then laughed naturally enough.

" Poor mother! " she said. " What a beast I am! I didn't mean it." Then she had taken her mother's hand and kissed it with a charming and humble contrition, just as Nevill came downstairs.

Now that had quite appalled Anna. She had first thanked God that Nevill had not been there, and then had wondered whether it would not have been better if he had. But probably the girl would not have said it, in that case. And, she had reckoned, if the girl said that kind of thing before other people, what was she like when she was alone with her mother?

That was the worst point. Yet it was not the only instance. Enid had certainly been a little sharp with Jim one morning after breakfast. She had laid herself out to be delightful to him at first; but five minutes after, when Jim came up, as was his way, and slipped his hand into hers, she had turned rather abruptly on to him, and Anna had caught again, she thought, a sudden flare of unloving impatience. (It was partly because of what she had seen in Jim's face, too, that she had questioned him later as to what he thought of the guests.)

Well, here were these intuitions — these observations — and the conclusions that her whole soul drew from them. And yet that distorting passion of jealousy came in and vitiated them all. And could she possibly tell that she was not gravely uncharitable — that she had noticed and counted and exaggerated those little sinister points only, and had ignored the rest? How could she tell? What was she to do? Yet Nevill mattered frightfully. And yet, too, she dared not speak. She must make the best of it — at any rate for the present. That would surely be Mr. Morpeth's advice, if she dared but to consult him.

She sat up suddenly interested.

She had been watching unintelligently the movements of the two, who had moved a few yards away from the river-bank in order to select and affix the appropriate fly. Jim had sat on his heels to watch, jumping up and down, now and again, with impatience. It was too far for her, with the suck and gurgle of the stream in her ears, to hear them talking.

Then, still unintelligently, she had seen Nedll approach the bank, crouching a little, and Jim, like a small replica of him, immediately behind; and then she watched the cautious sinuous movements and the delicate whisk of the rod. She saw it all, even while she thought of those other matters. Nothing had happened, except that the figures had presently moved round the bend of the river and disappeared.

Then they had come back, and there had followed another business with the removal of the fly, she supposed, and the affixing of another. Then once more the casting had begun.

And now she sat up to watch.

For Nevill was upright, and Jim was dancing. Nevill had the rod high, and she thought that, even at that distance, she could make out the curve of it. Then she saw Jim stop dancing, and snatch up the net; and so the two figures stayed, now moving a little, now returning.

And then the group dissolved into laxity again. She saw the rod lowered, and Jim's net drop. Nevill was examining something invisible between his fingers....

" Beastly bad luck," explained Jim a few minutes later. " Cousin Nevill hooked him beautifully, and then the fly broke — I mean the bit of stuff that fastens it. And the trout went away. Beastly bad luck! "

" Beastly bad luck," echoed Aunt Anna.