Elsbeth smiled over her daffodils. She had to put them in water, and arrange them, and re-arrange them, and admire them for a full half-hour before she had time for the rest of her post, for her two circulars and the letter in the unfamiliar handwriting.
But when, at last, it was opened, she had no more eyesfor daffodils; and though she spent her evening letter-writing, Alwynne got no thanks for them next day.
"Not even a note!" declaimed Alwynne indignantly. "She might at least have sent me a note! It isn't as if she had any one else to write to!"
Roger was most sympathetic.
Alwynne's visit had been prolonged in turn by Alicia, Jean and Roger; and Elsbeth had acquiesced—her sedate letters never betrayed how eagerly—in each delay.
Alicia was flatteringly in need of her help for the Easter church decorations, and how could Alwynne refuse? Jean was in the thick of preparations for the bazaar: Alwynne's quick wits and clever fingers were not to be dispensed with. Alwynne wondered what Clare would say to her interest in a bazaar and a mothers' meeting, and was a little nervous that it would be considered anything but a reasonable excuse for yet another delay. Clare's letters were getting impatient—Clare was wanting her back. Clare was finding her holidays dull. Yet Alwynne, longing to return to her, was persuaded to linger—for a bazaar—a village bazaar! That a bazaar of all things should tempt Alwynne from Clare! She felt the absurdity of it as fully as ever Clare could do. Yet she stayed. After all, The Dears had been very good to her.... She should be glad to make some small return by being useful when she could....
And Alwynne was pleasantly conscious that she was uncommonly useful. A fair is a many-sided gaiety. There are tableaux—Alwynne's suggestions were invaluable. Side-shows—Alwynne, in a witch's hat, told the entire village its fortunes with precision and point. Alwynne's well-drilled school-babies were pretty enough in their country dances and nursery rhymes; and the stall draperies were a credit to Alwynne's taste. Alwynne's posters lined the walls; and her lightning portraits—fourpence each, marriedcouples sixpence—were the success of the evening. The village notabilities were congratulatory: The Dears beamed: it was all very pleasant.
Her pleasure in her own popularity was innocent enough. Nevertheless she glanced uneasily in the direction of Roger Lumsden more than once during the evening. He was very big and busy in his corner helping his aunts, but she felt herself under observation. She had an odd idea that he was amused at her. She thought he might have enquired if she needed help during the long evening, when the little Parish Hall was grown crowded. Once, indeed, she signed to him across the room to come and talk to her, but he laughed and shook his head, and turned again to an old mother, absorbed in a pile of flannel petticoats. Alwynne was not pleased.
But when the sale had come to its triumphant end, and the stall-holders stood about in little groups, counting coppers and comparing gains—it was Roger who discovered Alwynne, laughing a trifle mechanically at the jokes of the ancient rector, and came to her rescue.
She found herself in the cool outer air, hat and scarf miraculously in place.
"Jean and Alicia are driving, they won't be long after us. I thought you'd rather walk. That room was a furnace," said Roger, with solicitude.
She drew a deep breath.
"It was worth it to get this. Isn't it cool and quiet? I like this black and white road. Doesn't the night smell delicious?"
"It's the cottage gardens," he said.
"Wallflowers and briar and old man. Better than all your acres of glass, after all," she insinuated mischievously. Then, with a change of tone, "Oh, dear, I am tired."
"You'd better hang on to my arm," said Roger promptly. "That's better. Of course you're tired. If you insist on running the entire show——"
"Then you did think that?" Alwynne gave instantbattle. "I knew you did. I saw you laugh. I can walk by myself, thank you."
But her dignity edged her into a cart-rut, for Roger did not deviate from the middle of the lane.
He laughed.
"You're a consistent young woman—I'm as sure of a rise——You'd better take my arm. Alwynne! You're not to say 'Damn.'" A puddle shone blackly, and Alwynne, nose in air, had stepped squarely into it.
She ignored his comments.
"I wasn't interfering. I had to help where I could. They asked me to. Besides—I liked it."
"Of course you did."
She looked up quickly.
"Did I really do anything wrong? Did I push myself forward?"
"You made the whole thing go," he said seriously. "A triumph, Alwynne. The rector's your friend for life."
"Then why do you grudge it?" She was hurt.
"Do I?"
"You laugh at me."
"Because I was pleased."
"With me?"
"With my thoughts. You've enjoyed yourself, haven't you?"
She nodded.
"I never dreamed it would be such fun." She laughed shyly. "I like people to like me."
"Now, come," he said. "Wasn't it quite as amusing as a prize-giving?"
She looked up at him, puzzled. He was switching with his stick at the parsley-blooms, white against the shadows of the hedge.
"I suppose your goal is a head mistress-ship?" he suggested off-handedly.
"Why?" began Alwynne, wondering. Then, taking the bait: "Not for myself—I couldn't. I haven't been tocollege, you know. But if Clare got one—I could be her secretary, and run things for her, like Miss Vigers did for Miss Marsham. We've often planned it."
"Ah, that's a prospect indeed," he remarked. "I suppose it would be more attractive, for instance, than to be Lady Bountiful to a village?"
"Oh, yes," said Alwynne, with conviction. "More scope, you know. And, besides, Clare hates the country."
"Ah!" said Roger.
They walked awhile in silence.
But before they reached home, Roger had grown talkative again. He had heard from his aunts that she was planning to go back to Utterbridge on the following Saturday—a bare three days ahead. Roger thought that a pity. The bazaar was barely over—had Alwynne any idea of the clearing up there would be to do? Accounts—calls—congratulations. Surely Alwynne would not desert his aunts till peace reigned once more. And the first of his roses would be out in another week; Alwynne ought to see them; they were a sight. Surely Alwynne could spare another week.
Alwynne had a lot to say about Elsbeth. And Clare. Especially Clare. Alwynne did not think it would be kind to either of them to stay away any longer. It would look at last as if she didn't want to go home. Elsbeth would be hurt. And Clare. Especially Clare.
But the lane had been dark and the hedges had been high, high enough to shut out all the world save Roger and his plausibilities. By the time they reached the garden gate Alwynne's hand was on Roger's arm—Alwynne was tired—and Alwynne had promised to stay yet another week at Dene. On the following day, labouring over her letters of explanation, she wondered what had possessed her. Wondered, between a chuckle of mischief and a genuine shiver, what on earth Clare would say.
But if Roger had gained his point, he gained little beside it. The week passed pleasantly, but some obscure instincttied Alwynne to his aunts' apron-strings. He saw less of her in those last days than in all the weeks of her visit. He had assured her that The Dears would need help, and she took him at his word. She absorbed herself in their concerns, and in seven long days found time but twice to visit Roger's roses.
Yet who so pleasant as Alwynne when she was with him? Roger should have appreciated her whim of civility. It is on record that she agreed with him one dinner-time, on five consecutive subjects. On record, too, that in that last week there arose between them no quarrel worthy of the name. Yet Roger was not in the easiest of moods, as his gardeners knew, and his coachman, and his aunts. The gardeners grumbled. The coachman went so far as to think of talking of giving notice. Alicia said it was the spring. Jean thought he needed a tonic—or a change. Roger, cautiously consulted, surprised her by agreeing. He said it was a good idea. He might very well take a few days off, say in a fortnight, or three weeks....
Only Alwynne, very busy over the finishing touches of Clare's birthday present, paid no attention to the state of Roger's temper. She was entirely content. The anticipation of her reunion with Clare accentuated the delights of her protracted absence. Indeed, it was not until the last morning of her visit that she noticed any change in him. That last morning, she thought resentfully, as later she considered matters in the train, he had certainly managed to spoil. Roger, her even-minded, tranquil Roger—Roger, prime sympathiser and confederate—Roger, the entirely dependable—had failed her. She did not know what had come over him.
For Roger had been in a bad temper, a rotten bad temper, and heaven knew why.... Alwynne didn't.... She had been in such a jolly frame of mind herself.... She had got her packing done early, and had dashed down to breakfast, beautifully punctual—and then it all began.... She re-lived it indignantly, as the telegraph poles shot by.
The bacon had sizzled pleasantly in the chafing-dish. She was standing at the window, crumbling bread to the birds.
"Hulloa! You're early!" remarked Roger, entering.
"Done all my packing already! Isn't that virtue?" Alwynne was intent on her pensioners. "Oh, Roger—look! There's a cuckoo. I'm sure it's a cuckoo. Jean says they come right on to the lawn sometimes. I've always wanted to see one. Look! The big dark blue one."
"Starling," said Roger shortly, and sat himself down. "First day I've known you punctual," he continued sourly.
"I'm going home," cried Alwynne. "I'm going home! Do you know I've been away seven weeks? It's queer that I haven't been homesick, isn't it?"
"Is it?" said Roger blankly.
"So, of course, I'm awfully excited," she continued, coming to the table. "Oh, Roger! In six hours I shall see Clare!"
"Congratulations!" He gulped down some coffee.
Alwynne looked at him, mildly surprised at his taciturnity.
"I've had a lovely time," she remarked wistfully. "You've all been so good to me."
Roger brightened.
"The Dears are such dears," continued Alwynne with enthusiasm. "I've never had such a glorious time. It only wanted Clare to make it quite perfect. And Elsbeth, of course."
"Of course," said Roger.
"So often I've thought," she went on: "'Now if only Clare and Elsbeth could be coming down the road to meet us——'" she paused effectively. "I do so like my friends to know each other, don't you?"
Roger was cutting bread—stale bread, to judge by his efforts. His face was growing red.
"Because then I can talk about them to them," concluded Alwynne lucidly.
"Jolly for them!" he commented indistinctly.
Alwynne looked up.
"What, Roger?"
"I said, 'Jolly for them!'"
"Oh!" Alwynne glanced at him in some uncertainty. Then, with a frown—
"Have you finished—already?"
"Yes, thank you."
"I haven't," remarked Alwynne, with sufficient point. Roger rose.
"You'll excuse me, won't you? I've a busy morning ahead of me."
He got up. But in spite of his protestations of haste he still stood at the table, fidgeting over his pile of circulars and seed catalogues, while he coughed the preliminary cough of a man who has something to say, and no idea of how to say it.
Alwynne, meanwhile, had discovered the two letters that her napkin had hidden, and had neither ears nor eyes for him and his hesitations.
Roger watched her gloomily as she opened the envelopes. The first enclosure was read and tossed aside quickly enough, but the other was evidently absorbing. He shrugged his shoulders at last, and, crossing the room, took his warmed boots from the hearth. The supporting tongs fell with a crash.
Alwynne jumped.
"Oh, Roger, you are noisy!"
"Sorry," said Roger, but without conviction.
She looked across at him with a hint of perturbation in her manner. She distrusted laconics.
"I say—is anything the matter?"
"Nothing whatever!" he assured her. "Why?" He bent over his boots.
"I don't know. You're rather glum to-day, aren't you?"
"Not at all," said Roger, with a dignity that was marred by the sudden bursting of his over-tugged bootlace. Hisensuing exclamation was vigorous and not inaudible. Alwynne giggled. It is not easy to tie a knot in four-sided leather laces. She watched his struggles without excessive sympathy. Presently a neat twist of twine flicked through space and fell beside him.
"'Just a little bit of string,'" murmured Alwynne flippantly. But getting no thanks, she returned to her letter. Roger fumbled in silence.
"The Dears are late," remarked Alwynne at last, as she folded her sheets.
"No—it's we who are early. I got down early on purpose. I thought you might be, too. I wanted——" he broke off abruptly.
"Yes, I always wake up at daybreak when I'm excited," she said joyously. "Oh, Roger! How I'm looking forward to getting home! Clare says she may meet me—if she feels like it," she beamed.
"Oh!" said Roger.
Alwynne tapped her foot angrily.
"What's the matter with you?" she demanded. "Why on earth do you sit there and grunt at me like that? Why won't you talk? You're an absolute wet blanket—on my last morning. I wish The Dears would come down."
"I think I hear them moving," he said, and stared at the ceiling.
"I hope you do." Alwynne flounced from the table and picked up a paper.
He stood looking at her—between vexation and amusement, and another sensation less easily defined.
"Well, I must be off," he said at last.
He got no answer.
"Good-bye, Alwynne. Pleasant journey."
Alwynne turned in a flash.
"Good-bye? Aren't you coming to see me off?" she demanded blankly.
He hesitated, looking back at her from the open window, one foot already on the terrace.
"I'm awfully busy. It's market-day, you know—and the new stuff's coming in. The Dears will see you off."
"Oh, all right." Alwynne was suddenly subdued. She held out a limp hand.
He disregarded it.
"Do you want me to come?" He spoke more cheerfully.
"One always likes one's friends to see one off," she remarked sedately.
"And meet one?" He glanced at the letter in her hand.
"And meet one. Certainly." Her chin went up. "I hadn't to ask Clare. But you needn't come. Good-bye!"
"Oh, I'm coming—now," he assured her, smiling.
Alwynne's eyebrows went up.
"But it's market-day, you know——"
"Yes."
"You're awfully busy."
"Yes."
"The new stuff's coming in."
"Yes."
"Are you coming, Roger?"
"Yes, Alwynne."
"Then, Roger dear—if you are coming, and it's no bother, and you can spare them, would you bring me a tiny bunch of your roses? Not for me—for Clare. She does love them so. Do, Roger!"
"I'm hanged if I do," cried Roger, and went his wrathful way.
But he did. A big bunch. More than enough for Clare.
Alwynne was out of the train a dangerous quarter minute before it came to a standstill, and making for the bunch of violets that bloomed perennially in Elsbeth's bonnet. There followed a sufficiency of kissing. It was like a holiday home-coming, thought Alwynne, of not so very long ago. But not so long ago she would have been exclusively occupied with Elsbeth, and her luggage, and her forgotten compartment; would not have turned impatiently from her aunt to scan the length of the platform. Not a sign of Clare? And Clare had promised to meet her....
She prolonged as long as she might her business with porters and ticket collectors and outside-men, but Clare did not appear; and she left the station at last, at her aunt's side, sedately enough, with the edge off the pleasure of her home-coming.
A telegram on the hall stand, however, contented her. Clare was sorry; Clare was delayed; would be away another four days; was writing. Alwynne shook off her black dog, and the meeting with Clare still delightfully ahead of her, was able to devote herself altogether to Elsbeth. Elsbeth spent a gay four days with an Alwynne grown rosy and cheerful, affectionate and satisfyingly garrulous again; found it very pleasant to have Alwynne to herself, her own property, even for four days. Elsbeth might know that she was second fiddle still, but though it cost her something to realise that she could never be first fiddle again, she could be content to give place to Roger Lumsden. She shook her head over her inconsistency. She could school herself, rather than lose the girl's confidence, to accept Clare Hartill as the main theme of Alwynne's conversation, till she was weary of the name, but she could not hear enough of Roger.All that Alwynne let fall of incident, description, or approval—Roger, Elsbeth discovered, had, in common with Clare, no faults whatever—she stored up to compare, when Alwynne had gone to bed, with letters, half-a-dozen by this time, that she kept locked up, with certain other, older letters, in the absurd little secret drawer of her desk. And she would patter across into Alwynne's room at last, to tuck in a sheet or twitch back a coverlet or merely to pretend to herself that Alwynne was a baby still, and so, with a smile and a sigh, to her own room, to make her plain toilet and to say her selfless prayers to God and her counterpane. Happy days and nights—four happy days and nights for Elsbeth.
Then Clare came back.
It was natural that Alwynne should meet her and go home with her, portmanteau in hand, to spend a night or two.... Elsbeth agreed that it was natural.... Three nights or even four.... But when a week passed, with no sign from Alwynne but a meagre, apologetic postcard, Elsbeth thought that she had good cause for anger. Not, of course, with Alwynne ... never, be it understood, with Alwynne ... but most certainly with Clare Hartill. Alwynne was so fatally good-natured.... Clare, she supposed, had kept the child by a great show of needing her help.... Of course, school was beginning, had begun already.... Clare would find Alwynne useful enough.... No doubt it was pleasant to have some one at her beck and call again in these busy first days of term.... Possibly—probably—oh, she conceded the "probably"—Clare had missed Alwynne badly.... Had not Elsbeth, too, missed Alwynne?
But she answered Alwynne's postcard affectionately as usual. If Alwynne were happier with Clare, Elsbeth would given no hint of loneliness. A hint, she knew, would suffice. Alwynne had a sense of duty. But she wanted free-will offering from Alwynne, not tribute.
In spite of herself, however, something of bitterness creptinto her next note to Roger Lumsden, who had inveigled her, she hardly knew how, into regular correspondence. Her remark thatAlwynne has been away ten days now, was set down baldly, with no veiling sub-sentences of explanation or excuse.
Had she but known it, however, she was not altogether just to Alwynne. The first hours of reunion did certainly drive her aunt out of Alwynne's mind, but after a couple of days she was ready to remind herself and Clare that Elsbeth, too, had some claim on her time. It is possible, however, that had she been happier, she would have been less readily scrupulous. Clare had certainly been glad to see her, had, for an hour or two, been entirely delightful. But with the resumption of their mutual life Clare was not long in falling back into her old bad ways, and in revenge for her two months' boredom, in sheer teasing high spirits at Alwynne's return, as well as in unreasoning, petulant jealousy, led Alwynne a pretty enough dance. For Clare was jealous, jealous of these eight weeks of Alwynne's youth that did not belong to her, and between her jealousy and her own contempt for her jealousy, was in one of the moods that she and Alwynne alike dreaded.
The mornings at the school came as a relief to them both, but no sooner were they together again than Clare's pricking devil must out. Scenes were incessant—wanton, childish scenes. Yet Alwynne, sore and bewildered as she was by Clare's waxing unreasonableness, was yet not proof against the sudden surrenders that always contrived to put her in the wrong. She would repeat to herself that it must be she who was unreasonable, that she should be flattered rather than distressed, for instance, that Clare would not let her go home.... She would rather be with Clare than Elsbeth, wouldn't she? Of course! well, then!... Nevertheless she could not help wondering if any letters had come for her; if Elsbeth, expecting her daily, would bother to send them on.... Roger had promised to write.... She thought that really she ought to go home.
But Clare would not hear of her leaving. Elsbeth wanted Alwynne? So did she. Didn't Elsbeth always have Alwynne? Surely Alwynne was old enough to be away from Elsbeth for a fortnight, without leave granted! Really, with all due respect to her, Alwynne's aunt was a regular Old Man of the Sea.
"Clare!" Alwynne's tone had a hint of remonstrance.
"Oh, I said 'with all respect.' But if she were not your aunt I should really be tempted to get rid of her—have you here altogether. You would like that, Alwynne, eh?"
Alwynne refused to nod, but she laughed.
"'Get rid'? Clare, don't be absurd."
Clare looked at her, smiling, eyes narrowed in the old way.
"Do you think I couldn't get rid of her if I wanted to? I always do what I set out to do. Look at Henrietta Vigers."
Alwynne sat bolt upright.
"Miss Vigers? But she resigned! She had been meaning to leave! She told us so! Do you mean that she didn't want to leave? Do you mean that she had to?"
"Have you ever seen a liner launched? You press an electric button, you know—just a touch—it's awfully simple——" She paused, eyes dancing.
But Alwynne had no answering twinkle.
"I wouldn't have believed it," she said slowly. Then, distractedly, "But why, Clare, why? What possessed you?"
"She got in my way," said Clare indolently.
Alwynne turned on her, eyes blazing.
"You mean to say—you deliberately did that poor old thing out of her job? If you did——But I don't believe it. If you did——Clare, excuse me—but I think it was beastly."
"Demon! With the highest respect to you——" quoted Clare, tongue in cheek.
But Alwynne was not to be pacified.
"Clare—you didn't, did you?"
"My dear, she was in the way. She worried you and you worried me. I don't like being worried."
Alwynne shivered.
"Don't, Clare! I hate you to talk like that—even in fun. It's—it's so cold-blooded."
"In fun!" Clare laughed lightly. Alwynne's youthful severity amused her. But she had gone, she perceived, a trifle too far. "Well, then, in earnest—joking apart——"
Alwynne's face relaxed. Of course, she had known all along that Clare was in fun....
"Joking apart—it was time for Miss Vigers to go. I admit saying what I thought to Miss Marsham. I am quite ready to take responsibility. She was too old—too fussy—too intolerant—I can't stand intolerance. She had to go."
Alwynne looked wicked.
"Clare, you remind me of a man I met, down at Compton. You ought to get on together. He's great on tolerance too. So tolerant that five hundred years ago he'd have burned every one who wasn't as tolerant as he. As it is, he shrugs them out of existence,à laPodsnap. Just as you did Miss Vigers just now."
"Who was he?"
"Don't know—only met him once. But he tickled me awfully. He hadn't the faintest idea how funny he was."
"Did he shrug you out of existence?"
"My dear Clare—could any one snub me? You might as well snub a rubber ball."
"Yes, you're pretty thick-skinned." Clare paid her back reflectively.
Alwynne winced.
"Am I? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be. How, just now?"
Clare yawned.
"Well, for one thing, you needn't flavour your conversation exclusively with Denes. They bore me worse than if they had an 'a' in them."
"I'm sorry." Alwynne paused. Then she plucked upcourage. "Clare, I stayed there two months. The Dene people are my friends, my great friends. I don't think you need sneer at them."
Clare yawned again.
"I wonder you ever came back, if they're so absorbing. What is the particular attraction there, by the way? The old women or the young men?"
Alwynne's lips quivered.
"Clare, what has happened? What is the matter with you nowadays? Why are you grown so different? Why are you always saying unkind things?"
Clare shrugged her shoulders.
"Really, Alwynne, I am not accustomed to be cross-examined. Such a bore, giving reasons. Besides, I haven't got any. Oh, don't look such a martyr."
"I think I'll go home," said Alwynne in a low voice. "I don't think you want me."
"But Elsbeth does, doesn't she?"
Clare settled herself more comfortably in the comfortable Chesterfield as she watched Alwynne out of the room. She lay like a sleepy cat, listening to the muffled sounds of Alwynne's packing; let her get ready to her hat and her gloves and the lacing of her boots, before she called her back, and played with her, and forgave her at the last. Yet she found Alwynne less pliable than usual: convicted of sin, she was yet resolved on departure, if not to-day—no, of course she would not go to-day, after behaving so ill to her Clare—then, the day following. That would be Friday—a completed fortnight—and Saturday was Clare's birthday—had Clare forgotten? Alwynne hadn't, anyhow. Oh, she must come for Saturday, and what would Elsbeth say to that? There must be one evening, at least, given to Elsbeth in between. After all, it was jolly dull for Elsbeth all by herself.
Clare, good-tempered for the first time that afternoon, supposed it was, rather.
But on that particular day, Alwynne's qualms of consciencewere unnecessary. Elsbeth was not at all dull. Elsbeth, on the contrary, was tremendously excited. And Elsbeth had forgotten all about Alwynne, was not missing her in the least. Elsbeth had received a letter from Dene that morning, and was expecting Roger Lumsden to supper.
Elsbeth spent her day in that meticulous and unnecessary arrangement and re-arrangement of her house and person, with which woman, since time was, has delighted to honour man, and which he, the unaccountable, has as inevitably failed to notice. The clean cretonnes had arrived in time and were tied and smoothed into place; the vases new-filled; and the fire, though spring-cleaning had been, sprawled opulently in a brickless grate. The matches, with the fifty cigarettes Elsbeth had bought that forenoon, hesitating and all too reliant upon the bored tobacconist, lay, aliens unmistakable, near Roger's probable seat, and the knowledge of the supper laid out in the next room fortified Elsbeth as, years ago, a new frock might have done. Alwynne, in every age and stage, dotted the piano and occasional tables, and a photograph that even Alwynne had never seen was placed on the mantelshelf, that Roger, greeting Elsbeth, might see it and forget to be shy.
But it was Elsbeth that was shy, when Roger, very punctual, arrived amid the chimes of the evening service. Yet Elsbeth had been ready since five. They greeted each other in dumb show and sat a moment, smiling and taking stock, while the clamour swelled, insisted, ebbed and died away.
Roger, still silent, began to fumble at a case he carried, while Elsbeth found herself apologetically and for the thousandth time wondering to her guest why she had taken root so near a church, while within herself a hard voice cried exultantly, "He's his father, his father over again! Nothing of Rosemary there!" and she tasted a little strange flash of triumph over the dead woman she had been too gentle to hate.
But suddenly her lap was filled with roses, bunch upon tight masculine bunch, and the formal sentences broke up into incoherence as Roger stooped and kissed his second cousin Elsbeth.
They soon made friends. Roger, who had never quite forgotten her, found the pleasant-faced spinster as attractive as the pretty lady of his childhood. He examined her as he ate his supper. A spare figure, soft grey hair, and square, capable hands; a kind mouth, not a strong one, set in lines firmer than were natural to it; gentle eyes, no longer beautiful, and a cheerful, tired smile; a sweet face, thought Roger, not a happy one. Yet she had Alwynne! She fluttered a little over the meal, and was anxious about his coffee, and full of little enquiries and attentions that were never irritating. There was a faint scent of verbena as she moved about him, and her silk gown did not crackle like younger women's dresses. She listened well, but he guessed her no talker, and later in the evening, gauged her affection for Alwynne by her breathless fluency. He thought her charming and a little pathetic, and wondered why nobody had ever insisted on marrying her.
Elsbeth's shyness soon dwindled; she slipped quickly into the informal "aunt and nephew" attitude that he evidently expected, and found his friendliness and obvious pleasure in her as delightful as it was astonishing. She supposed, with a wistful little shrug, that she was near the rose! Nevertheless she enjoyed herself.
They talked in narrowing circles: of his father a little; more of his mother; of Dene, and Elsbeth's former visits. He described Compton and The Dears, and his gardens and his roses. Then, with a chuckle, an unauthorised attempt of Alwynne at pruning that had ended in disaster; and so plunged into confidences.
"I expect you've guessed that I intend—that I want to marry Alwynne,—with her permission," he added hastily, smiling down at her.
Elsbeth envied him his inches. For Alwynne's sake shedid not intend to be dominated; but she found his mere masculinity a little overpowering, and did not guess that her frail dignity had made its own impression.
She smiled back at him.
"I'm glad you put that in. You should respect grey hairs."
"But I do."
"No. You imply that I'm a very blind and foolish guardian! My dear boy," her pretty voice shook a little, "I've hoped and prayed for this. You, John's boy, and—and dear Rosemary's, of course—and Alwynne, who's dearer to me than a daughter! Why, that's why I sent her down to Dene!" She blushed the rare blush of later middle age. "Oh, my dear—it was shameless! I was matchmaking! I was! And I've always considered it so indelicate. But I wished so strongly that you two might come together. When Alwynne wrote of you so often, I hoped: and then your letters made me sure. You had got on so well without me these twenty-five years—and then to feel the ties of kinship so very strongly all of a sudden—it was transparent, Roger."
He laughed.
"I hadn't forgotten really—though it's the vaguest memory. You gave me a rabbit in a green cabbage that opened. And one Sunday we shared Prayer Books. You had a blue dress—a pale blue that one never sees nowadays, and very pink cheeks."
"Ah! thecrêpe de Chine," said Elsbeth absently.
"I always remembered—though I'd forgotten I did. Alwynne brought it back. She's like you in some ways, you know. She made me awfully curious to see you again. From the way she talked I knew you'd be decent to me." He smiled. "Elsbeth—I'm tremendously in love."
"Have you told her so?"
"Alwynne's rather difficult to get hold of. She doesn't understand anything but black and white."
"Clare Hartill—I suppose you've heard of Clare Hartill?"
"Have I not!"
"Clare Hartill says she has an uncanny ear for nuances."
"Also that she's thick-skinned! The woman's a fool."
"Oh, she's quite right, Roger, though I expect she was in a temper when she said it. But it only means that Alwynne has been trained to listen to women. She can't follow men yet. She has been advised that they are grown-up children and that her rôle is to be superior but tactful."
He chuckled.
"Yes. When Alwynne's tactful—she's tactful! You can't mistake it, can you? Have you ever seen her sidling out of a room when she thought she wasn't wanted? Still, she can hold her own, on occasion. She simply walked through my hints. But—how does she talk of me, Elsbeth, if she does at all, that is?"
"She likes you, in the 'good old Roger' fashion."
"But you do think I have a chance?"
"That's why I wanted to see you. Frankly, at present I don't think you have."
He looked at her coolly, not at all depressed.
"Why not?"
"Clare Hartill."
"Ah!" He sat down at the table again, his chin in his fist. "You think her the obstacle?"
"I taught her once. Alwynne has been absorbed in her for two years. Alwynne talks——" they both smiled. "I could compare. I ought to know her pretty well."
"Yes. But how can she affect Alwynne and me? Of course I know what a lot Alwynne thinks of her. She's rather delightful on the subject. Thinks her perfection, and so on. Alwynne is naïve; conveys more than she knows or intends, sometimes. And she never looks at her god's feet, does she? 'Clare' and 'Clare' and 'Clare.' Personally, I imagine her a bit of a brute."
"I try to be fair. She is fond of Alwynne."
"Why not? But what's that got to do with Alwynne's caring for me, if I am lucky enough to make her? And I'm—conceitedly sure—that it's only a question of waking Alwynne up."
"You don't know Clare. If once she knows, she'll never let the child go."
"But if Alwynne were engaged to me?"
"She'll never allow it. She'll play on Alwynne's affection for her."
"But why? I shouldn't interfere with their friendship."
"My dear Roger—marriage ends friendship automatically. Clare would be shrewd enough to see that. And even—otherwise—she would never share. You don't guess how jealous women are."
Roger leant back in his chair with a gesture of bewilderment.
"My dearest cousin! The age of sorcery is over. You talk as if Alwynne were under a spell."
"Practically she is. Of course Clare would put it on the highest grounds—unsuitability—a waste of talents. She pretends to despise domesticity. Alwynne would be hypnotised into repeating her arguments as her own opinion."
"Hypnotism?"
"Oh, not literally. But she really does influence some women, and young girls especially, in the most uncanny way. I've watched it so often."
"She's not married?"
"She hardly ever speaks to a man. I've seen her at gaieties, when she was younger. She was always rather stranded. Men left her alone. Something in her seems to repel them. I think she fully realised it. And she's a proud woman. There's tragedy in it."
"Does she repel you?"
"Not in that way. I dislike her. I think her dangerous. I'm intensely sorry for her. And I do understand something of the attraction she exercises, better than you can,though it has never affected me. You see—eccentricity—abnormality—does not affect women as it does men. And she's brilliantly clever."
"So is Alwynne—you wouldn't call her abnormal?"
"Alwynne? Never! She's as sound and sweet as an apple. But—and it means a good deal at her age—she's in abnormal hands. Clare Hartill is abnormal, spiritually perverse—and she's fastened on the child. They adore each other. It's terribly bad for Alwynne. As it is, it will take her months to shake off Clare's influence, even with you to help her. That is, if you succeed in detaching her. I'm useless, of course. Loving—just loving—is no good. You can only influence if you are strong enough to wound. I merely irritate. I'm weak. But you could do as you like, I believe. Take her away from that selfish woman, Roger! It's blighting her."
"You think," he said, "that she would be content with me—with marriage as a career? Of course, Miss Hartill's right about her talents."
"Alwynne? I don't think—I know. All her gifts are so much surface show; she's a very simple child underneath. Content? Can't you see her, Roger—with children? Her own babies?"
Roger beamed.
"It's rather a jolly prospect. Well, I must take my chance."
"Of course, you must wait; it's too soon yet. Even later, if Clare really wants her—wants her enough to suppress her own perverse impulses—I'm afraid you've little chance. But it's possible that she will not want her as much as that."
"I don't follow."
"I mean that Clare, with that impish nature of hers, may hurt Alwynne."
"I should think she has already, often enough."
"Yes—but Alwynne has never realised it, never realised that it was deliberate. She is always so sure that it washer fault somehow. If once she found out that Clare was hurting her for—for the fun of it, you know—for the pleasure of watching her suffer—as I'm sure she does—it might end everything. Alwynne hates cruelty. That poor child's death shook her. A little more, and she will be disillusioned."
"But loyal still?"
"Probably. But the glamour would be gone. She would be extremely unhappy. There your chance would come. Though I don't think Clare will give it you—for I believe Alwynne does mean more to her than most things. But she's an unaccountable person: there is the chance."
"I see," Roger rose and straightened himself. "Practically I'm not to depend on my own—attractions—at all." He laughed a little. "I am to watch the whims of this—this unpleasant school-marm, and be grateful to her for forcing Alwynne to prefer my deep sea to her devil. The situation is hardly dignified."
Elsbeth laughed too.
"Love is always undignified, Roger. What does it matter if you want her?" But she watched him anxiously as he walked to the window, and stood staring out.
There was a silence. At last he turned—
"Elsbeth, dear, it's a beautiful scheme, and a woman could carry it through, I daresay—but it's no good to me. It's too—too tortuous, too feminine. I don't mean anything rude. It's merely that I'm not—subtle enough, or patient. At least, I haven't got that cat-and-mouse kind of patience. I can wait, you know. That's different. I can wait all right. But I can't intrigue."
Elsbeth flushed.
"There is no intrigue. It's a question of understanding Alwynne and of using the opportunity when it comes."
"To trick and surprise and over-persuade her into caring for me! It's no good, Elsbeth. It isn't possession I want—it's Alwynne. Can't you see? We should neither of us be happy. She would always distrust me and rememberthat I'd taken an advantage. I should end by hating her, I believe. Can't you see?"
Elsbeth was shaken by her own thoughts.
"I see," she said finally. "And I see that you don't love her—or you'd take her on any terms."
"Would you?"
"Yes."
"Well, I wouldn't. And I do love her. But I want Alwynne on my terms. Do I sound an awful prig? Cousin Elsbeth, hear my way! I'm going to have it out with Alwynne."
"At once?"
"At once. As soon as I see her—no beating about the bush."
"Roger—she may be utterly out of the mood."
"Hang moods! I beg your pardon, Elsbeth. But I'm going to tell her—certain things. If she doesn't like it I'm going back to Dene. She'll know where to find me when she changes her mind. Elsbeth, don't look so hopeless."
"You don't understand Alwynne."
"I don't want to understand her—I want to marry her. I must stick to my own way. Can't you conceive that all this consideration, all this deference to moods and dissection of motives, this horribly feminine atmosphere that she seems to have lived in, of subtleties, and reservations, and simulations—may be bad for her? It seems to me that she's always being thought about. You, with your anxious affection—that unholy woman with her lancet and probe—you neither of you leave her alone for a second. She's always being touched. Well, I'm going to leave her alone. It gives her a chance."
"I've never spoiled her." Elsbeth was off at a tangent.
"I'm sure of it. I can remember Father holding you up to Mother once. He said you were the most judicious woman with children that he knew."
"Did he?" said Elsbeth.
"Mother was awfully annoyed." Roger chuckled. "I'd been bawling for my fourth doughnut—and got it."
"I've never spoiled Alwynne," repeated Elsbeth tonelessly.
"No one could," remarked Roger with conviction.
Elsbeth looked up and laughed at him.
"So you are human!" she said. "I was beginning to doubt it."
"When I get on the subject of Alwynne's adorableness——" he laughed back at her, "we're obviously cousins, aren't we? But, really, I've been trying to be detached, and critical, and analytical, and all the things you feel are important. I wanted to see what you meant, Cousin Elsbeth; and I do see that we both want the same thing. But as to the means—I believe I must go my own way."
She eyed him doubtfully. But he looked very big and solid in the little room, comfortingly sure of himself.
"You think me a frantic old clucking hen, don't you? And are just a little sorry for the duckling."
"I think you're a perfect dear," said Roger.
"You'll come to-morrow? Alwynne will be back, I hope."
"What time is she likely to turn up?"
"About four, if she comes. She would lunch with Clare, I expect."
He nodded whimsically.
"Very well. To-morrow, at four precisely, there will be a row royal. To-morrow I am calling on Miss Hartill to fetch Alwynne home. Good-bye, Cousin Elsbeth."
He turned again in the doorway.
"Elsbeth, there's a house at Dene I've got my eye on. There's a turret room. My best roses will clamber right into it. That's to be yours. And Elsbeth! Nobody but you shall run the nursery."
He had shut the door before she could answer, and she heard him laugh as he ran, two at a time, down the shallow steps.
She went to the window and watched till his strong figure had disappeared in the dusk.
"He is very like his father," said Elsbeth wistfully, glancing across at the faded likeness.
The dusk deepened and the stars began to twinkle.
"He will never be the man his father was," cried Elsbeth, suddenly and defiantly.
Her hands shook as she cleared away the remnants of the meal. She swept up the hearth, picked the coals carefully apart, and tidied the tidy room. Roger's roses still lay in a heap in the basket chair. She gathered them up and carried them into the tiny bathroom, that they might drink their fill all night. Their scent was strong and sweet. Then she lit her candle and prepared for bed.
The sheets were very cold. She tried not to think of Roger's father lying in the grave she had never seen. The old, cruel longing was upon her for the sound of his voice and the sight of his face and the sweetness of his smile. She broke into painful weeping.
The hours wore past.
Of course he would marry Alwynne.... Alwynne would be happy ... there was comfort in that.... Roger would be kind to her.... A good boy ... a dear boy....
"And he might have been my son," cried out Elsbeth to the uncaring night.
Roger never fought his battle-royal with Clare, for at the turn of Friar's Lane he met Alwynne herself, dragging wearily along the cobblestones, weighed down by paper parcels and the heavy folds of the waterproof hanging on her arm. Her hair was roughened by the wind that tugged and strained at her loosened hat; her face was drawn and shadowy; she had an air of exhaustion, of indefinable demoralisation that Roger recognised angrily. He had seen it in the first weeks of her visit to Dene. Her thoughts were evidently far away, and she would have passed him without a look if he had not stopped her. She started violently as he spoke—it was like rousing a nightmare-ridden sleeper—then her face grew radiant.
"Roger!" she cried, and beamed at him like a delighted child.
He possessed himself of her parcels and they walked on, Alwynne's questions and exclamations tumbling over each other. Roger at Utterbridge! Why had he come? How long was he staying? How were The Dears and how did Dene spare him? When had he arrived?
Roger dropped his bomb.
"Yesterday. I went to supper with Elsbeth. We had a long talk."
His tone conveyed much. The brightness died out of Alwynne's face. She looked surprised and excessively annoyed.
"She knew you were coming?"
"She did."
"Why on earth didn't she let me know? Why, shedoesn't know you! She hasn't seen you since you were a kid! It's extraordinary of Elsbeth."
"I wouldn't let her."
"Wouldn't let her?" Alwynne looked at him blankly. "Roger—I think you're cracked."
"Terse and to the point! Don't you worry. Elsbeth and I understand each other. Besides, we've been corresponding."
"You and Elsbeth?"
"Yes. That's partly why I came. I wanted to get to know her. You see, your description and her letters didn't tally. So I came. We got on jolly well. I burst in on her again at breakfast this morning. She didn't fuss—took it like a lamb. I fancy you underrate our cousin—in more ways than one. She knows it too; she's no fool! I found that out when we talked about you."
"Elsbeth discussed me?—with you?" Alwynne's tone foreboded a bad half-hour to Elsbeth.
"Why not? You're not sacred, are you?" Roger chuckled.
Alwynne felt inclined to box his ears. Here was a new Roger. Roger—her own property—to take such an attitude—to ally himself with Elsbeth—to leave her in the dark! Roger! It was unthinkable.... And she had been so awfully glad to see him ... absurdly glad to see him ... he had made her forget even Clare.... Clare.... She began to occupy her mind once more with the scene of the previous day, recalling what she had said; contrasting it with what she had intended to say; stabbed afresh by Clare's manner; writhing at her own helplessness; when Roger's slow voice brought her thoughts back to the present.
"You've been away from Elsbeth a fortnight," he said accusingly, as they entered the Town Gardens.
She flared anew at his tone.
"Certainly. I've been staying with friends. Have you any objection?"
"A friend," he corrected.
She flushed.
"Clare Hartill is my best friend——"
"Your worst, you mean."
She turned on him.
"How dare you say that? How dare you speak of my friends like that? How dare you speak to me at all?"
He continued, quite unmoved—
"Don't be silly, Alwynne. Your best friend is your Aunt Elsbeth—you ought to know that. You don't treat her well, I think. You've been away a fortnight with that—friend of yours; you stayed on without consulting her——"
"I telephoned," cried Alwynne, in spite of herself.
"Since then you've sent her one post card. She isn't even sure that you're coming back to-day; she's just had to sit tight and wait until it's your—no, I'll give you your due—until it's your friend's pleasure to send you back to her, fagged out, miserable—just like my dog after a thrashing. And Elsbeth's to comfort you, and cosset you, and put you to rights—and then you'll go back to that woman again, to have the strength and the spirit drained out of you afresh—and you walk along talking of your best friend. I call it hard luck on Elsbeth."
Alwynne's careful dignity was forgotten in her anger. She turned on him like a furious schoolgirl.
"Will you stop, please? How dare you speak of Clare? If Elsbeth chooses to complain——What affair is it of yours anyhow? I'll never speak to you again—never—or Elsbeth either." Her voice broke—she was on the verge of tears.
Roger took her by the arm, and drew her to a seat.
"You'd better sit down," he said. "We've heaps to talk over yet, more than you've a notion of. And if we're to have a row, let's get it over in the open—far less dangerous. Never get to cover in a thunderstorm. I know what you want." He had watched her fumbling unavailingly in the bag and pocket and had chuckled. He knew his Alwynne.He produced a clean silk handkerchief and dangled it before her. She clutched at it with undignified haste.
"'Thank you,' first," he said, holding it firmly. A moment victory hung in the balance. Then—
"Oh! Oh, thank you," said Alwynne, with fine unconcern, and secured it. Their eyes met. It was impossible not to smile.
"At the same time," remarked Alwynne, a little later, "you've no right to talk to me like that, Roger, whatever you choose to think. You're not my cousin."
"I'm Elsbeth's. It strikes me she needs defending."
Alwynne laughed.
"You know I'm awfully fond of Elsbeth. You know I am. I am a beast sometimes to her, you're quite right—but she doesn't really need defending. Honestly."
"Not from you, I know. But frankly, without wanting to be rude to your friend—I think she makes you careless of Elsbeth's feelings. Elsbeth was awfully hurt this week, and she's the sort of dear one hates to see hurt."
Alwynne looked at him wistfully.
"Roger," she said hesitatingly, "suppose some one were unkind to me—hurt me—hurt me badly, very often, almost on purpose—would you defend me? Would you care at all?"
"I shouldn't let 'em," he grunted.
"If you couldn't help it?"
"I shouldn't let 'em," he repeated doggedly.
"But should you care?"
"Of course I should. What rot you talk. Of course I should. But I shouldn't let them."
"Oh, Roger," she cried, suddenly and pitifully, "they do hurt me sometimes—they do, they do."
Roger looked around him with unusual caution. The Gardens were empty. There was not even a loafer in sight. He put his arm round her, and drew her clumsily to him. She yielded like a tired child, and lay quietly, staring withbrimming eyes at the gaudy tulip-bed on the further side of the walk.
"I believe you're about fed up with that school of yours," he said, after a time, as if he had not followed the allusion to Clare.
She nodded.
"I'm not lazy, Roger; you know it's not that. It's just the atmosphere, and the awful crowding. Such a lot of women at close quarters, all enthusiasm and fussing and importance. They're all hard-working, and all unselfish and keen—more than a crowd of men would be, I believe. But that's just it—they're dears when you get them alone, but somehow, all together, they stifle you. And they all have high voices, that squeak when they're keenest. D'you know, that was what first made me like you, Roger—your voice? It's slow, and deep, and restful—such a reasonable voice. You mustn't think me disloyal to the school. The girls are all frightfully interesting, and the women are dears, and there's always Clare—only we do get on each other's nerves."
"A boys' school is just the same."
"Is it? I've only seen Compton. I don't know how co-education affects the boys, but I'm sure it's good for the girls, and the mistresses too. Of course, they're not really different to my lot, but they seemed so. They had room to move. They weren't always rubbing up against each other like apples in a basket. It all seemed so natural and jolly. Fresh air everywhere. And since I've been back, I've felt I couldn't breathe. I believe it's altered me, just seeing it all; and I can't make Clare understand. She thinks I liked Dene because I wanted to flirt."
"That type would."
"Yes, I know you think that," she answered uneasily, "but she isn't—that horrid type. That's why it hurts so that she can't understand. As if I ever thought of such a thing until she talked of it! Only I like talking to men, you know, Roger; because they've often got quite interestingminds, and it's easier to find out what they really think than with women. But they bore Clare."
"Do they?" Roger had his own opinion on the question. But he found that it was difficult to refrain from kissing Alwynne when she looked at him with innocent eyes and made preposterous statements; so he stared at the tulips.
"You see, she thinks—we both think, that if you've got a—a really real woman friend, it's just as good as falling in love and getting married and all that—and far less commonplace. Besides the trouble—smoking, you know—and children. Clare hates children."
"Do you?" Roger looked at her gravely.
"Me? I love them. That's the worst of it. When I grew old, I'd meant to adopt some—only Clare wouldn't let me, I'm sure. Of course, as long as Clare wanted me, I shouldn't mind. To live with Clare all my life—oh, you know how I'd love it. I just—I love her dearly, Roger, you know I do—in spite of things I've told you. Only—oh, Roger, suppose she got tired of me. And, since I've been back, sometimes I believe she is."
"Poor old girl!"
"It's a shame to grizzle to you; it can't be interesting; and, of course, I don't mean for one moment to attack Clare; only everything I do seems wrong. When she sneers, I get nervous; and the more nervous I get, the more I do things wrong—you know, silly things, like spilling tea and knocking into furniture. And she gets furious and then we have a scene. It's simply miserable. We had one yesterday, and again this morning. It's my fault, of course—I get on her nerves."
"You never get on my nerves," said Roger suggestively.
"Not when I chop up your best pink roses?" She looked at him sideways, dimpling a little.
"As long as you don't chop up your own pink fingers—you've got pretty fingers, Alwynne——"
"Roger, you're a comforting person. I wish—I wish Clare would treat me as you do, sometimes. You pull meup too, but you never make me nervous. I'm sure I shouldn't disappoint her so often, if she did."
"Alwynne," he returned with a twinkle, "stop talking. I've made a discovery."
"Well?"
"You're ten times fonder of me than you are of that good lady. Now, own up."
"Roger!" Alwynne was outraged. She made efforts to sit upright, but Roger's arm did not move. It was a strong arm and it held her, if anything, a trifle more firmly. "You're talking rot. Please let me sit up."
"You're all right. It's quite true, my child, and you know it. Ah, yes—they're a lovely colour, aren't they?"
For Alwynne was gazing at the tulips with elaborate indifference. Secretly she was a little excited. Here was a new Roger.... He was quite mad, of course, but rather a dear.... She wondered what he would say next....
"To examine our evidence. You were very glad to see me—now weren't you?"
"I'm always pleased," remarked Alwynne sedately to the tulips, "to see old friends."
"Yes—but we're not old friends exactly, if you refer to length of acquaintanceship. If to age—I was thirty last March. I'm not doddering yet."
"I wasn't speaking of ages. Thirty is perfectly young. Clare's thirty-five. You do fish, Roger."
"Yes. I'm going to have a haul some day soon, I hope. But to resume. Firstly, you were jolly glad to see me. Secondly, you took your lecture very fairly meekly—for you! and you've already had one talking-to to-day during which, I gather, you were anything but meek."
"I never told you——"
"But there was a glint in your eye——You've no idea how invariably your face gives you away, Alwynne. Thirdly, you've hinted quite half-a-dozen times that Miss Hartill would be all the better for a few of my virtues. Tenth, and finally, you've made my coat collar thoroughlydamp—you needn't try to move—and I don't exactly see you spoiling your Clare's Sunday blouse that way, often, eh?"
Alwynne was obliged to agree with the tulips.
"I thought so. Therefore I say, after considering all the evidence—in your heart of hearts you are ten times fonder of me than of Miss Clare Hartill."
The trap was attractively baited. Impossible for an Alwynne to resist analysis of her own emotions. She walked into it.
"I don't know—I wonder if you're right? Perhaps I amfonderof you. I love Clare—that's quite a different thing. One couldn't be fond of Clare. That would be commonplace. She's the sort of wonderful person you just worship. She's like a cathedral—a sort of mystery. Now you're like a country cottage, Roger. Of course, one couldn't be fond of a cathedral."
"A cottage," remarked Roger to the tulips in his turn, "can be made a very comfortable place. Especially if it's a good-sized one—Holt Meadows, for instance. My tenants leave in June, did you know? There's a south wall and a croquet ground."
"Tennis?"
Roger was afraid the tulips would find it too small for tennis.
"But a court could be made in Nicholas Nye's paddock," Alwynne reminded them.
Roger thought it would be rather fun to live there, tennis or no tennis—didn't the tulips think so?
The tulips did, rather.
"One could buy Witch Wood for a song, I believe; you know it runs along the paddock. Think of it, all Witch Wood for a wild garden."
"And no trespassers! No trampled hyacinths any more! Or ginger-beer bottles! Oh, Roger!" A delighted, delightful Alwynne was forgetting all about the tulips; but they nodded very pleasantly for all that.
"A footpath through to The Dears' garden, and my glass-houses. And chickens in a corner of the paddock. You'd have to undertake those."
"All white ones!"
"Better have Buff Orpingtons. Lay better. Remember Jean's troubles: 'Really, the Amount of Eggs——'"
"Dear Jean. And besides, I shall want some for clutches. I adore them when they're all fluff and squeak; and ducklings too, Roger. We won't have incubators, will we?"
"Rather not. Lord, it will be sport. You're to wear print dresses at breakfast, Alwynne—lilac, with spots."
"You're very particular——"
"Like that one you wore at the Fair——you know."
"Oh, that one! Do you mean to say——All right. But I shall wear tea-gowns every afternoon—with lace and frillies. Elsbeth says they're theatrical."
"All right! We'll eat muffins——"
"And read acres of books——"
"May I smoke?"
"It'll get into the curtains——"
"I'll get you a new lot once a week——"
"And we won't ever be at home to callers——"
"Just us two."
Alwynne sighed contentedly.
"Oh, Roger, it would be rather nice. You can invent beautifully."
He laughed.
"Then we'll consider that settled."
He bent his head and kissed her.
A very light kiss—a very airy and fugitive attempt at a kiss—a kiss that suited the moment better than his mood; but Roger could be Fabian in his methods. Alwynne rather thought that it was a curl brushing her forehead: the tulips rather thought it wasn't. Roger could have settled the matter, but they did not like to appeal to him. They were all a little disturbed—more than a little uncertain how to act. The tulips' attitude was frankly alarming to Alwynne,who (if the kiss had really happened) was prepared to be dignified and indignant. The tulips, however, appeared to think a kiss a pleasant enough indiscretion. "To some one, at any rate, we are worth the kissing," quoth the tulips defiantly, with irreverent eyes on a vision of Clare's horrified face. Then, veering smartly, they reminded Alwynne, that from a patient, protective Roger it was the most brotherly and natural of sequels to their make-believe. Alwynne was not so sure; Roger was developing characteristics of which the kiss (had it taken place) was not the least exciting and alarming symptom. He was no longer the Roger of Dene days, not a month dead; or rather, the Dene Roger was proving himself but a facet of a many-sided personality—big, too—that was more than a match for a many-sided Alwynne, with moods that met and enveloped hers, as a woman's hands will catch and cover a baby's aimless fist. More than his strength, his gentleness disturbed her. So long a prisoner to Clare, ever bruising herself against the narrow walls of that labyrinthine mind—she would have been indifferent to any harshness from him; but his kindliness, his simplicity, unnerved her. He had been right—she had her pride. Clare did not often guess when her self-control was undermined. But with Roger—what was the use of pretending to Roger? It had been comforting to have a good cry. His kiss had been comforting too. She remembered the first of Clare's rare kisses—the thin fingers that gripped her shoulders; the long, fierce pressure, mouth to mouth; the rough gesture that released her, flung her aside.