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own lines. Whether I’m to be the person she turns to or not, is really quite immaterial.”
    â€œI don’t think I could ever feel like that, if I had a child. It’s very wonderful of you.”
    â€œNo,” said Claudia. “It’s just logic and common sense and, I suppose, my incurable passion for seeing things straight.”
    Something in Frances Ladislaw’s mind at that moment rang a faint, immensely distant, note of warning. Just below the level of conscious thought was a latent fear, not quite sprung into life. She became aware—perhaps not more than half aware—that this frankness, this detachment of Claudia’s, awoke in herself something that was vaguely and quite indefinably apprehensive.
    â€œYou’re cold—you shivered,” cried Claudia. “Let’s come indoors.”
    They rose and walked slowly towards the house.
    Presently Frances said:
    â€œTell me something about Miss Oliver. I think she’s so attractive.”
    â€œShe’s attractive, and she’s very clever and capable, and we work together very well, and she doesn’t” said Claudia deliberately, “like me one little bit.”
    â€œBut Claudia—! Why doesn’t she like you? Why should she be your partner if she doesn’t like you? Why do you say such things?” cried Mrs Ladislaw breathlessly.
    â€œSay such things?” echoed her hostess. “What things? It doesn’t matter if Sal Oliver has no personal feeling for me, so long as we make a decent job of working together at the office.”
    â€œI can’t bear it—you’re so brave—so good, and I can’t bear you to be unhappy—lonely. Anna—and your mother—and Copper—and—and so much to worry you.”
    â€œBut it doesn’t matter,” repeated Claudia, quickening her pace a little. “I’m quite used to it all, and there’s nothing to be done about any of it. I’ve just got to accept the fact that it
is
so.”
    But Frances Ladislaw, breathless and unhappy and bewildered, could by no means execute the necessary mental
volte-face
that Claudia appeared to expect of her.
    Pity and sympathy had welled up within her and it disconcerted her deeply to find that, all of a sudden, they seemed to be rejected by the very friend whose words had called them forth.
III
(1)
    They had finished playing tennis.
    It was Taffy’s turn to put away the balls and let down the net. Sylvia walked slowly towards the house with Andrew Quarrendon.
    â€œI’m afraid I was frightfully bad,” he said apologetically. “I never play games.”
    â€œIt was great fun,” said Sylvia placidly.
    Quarrendon brightened.
    â€œIt was, wasn’t it? You know, that’s a thing one misses very much as one gets older. Nobody ever expects one to have fun—just plain, pointless fun. It’s all so serious.”
    â€œIt’s because you’re a don, I expect.”
    â€œI expect so,” he agreed.
    â€œWe’ll play games after dinner, shall we? Paper games, I mean. I’m sure you can play those.”
    â€œYes, I can,” he admitted. “I’d like that very much. Do you know a great many?”
    â€œA good many, I think. Mother’s very good at them, and so’s Sal Oliver. I don’t know about Frances.”
    â€œWhich is Frances?”
    â€œMrs Ladislaw. The one who was here when you arrived. She was at school with Mother, and her greatest friend. She’s my godmother. We haven’t seen her for years. Look out!”
    Sylvia caught Quarrendon by the arm as he entangled himself with the ropes of the old swing that hung in a corner of the garden.
    â€œThank you,” he said meekly. “I’m very bad at seeing things, I’m afraid.”
    â€œBecause of your sight, or because of not being interested?”
    â€œMy sight is perfectly all right so long as I’m wearing my