Mistress of the House (12 page)

CHAPTER TEN

Dear Mother:

I hope you and Beryl got back to town safely and comfortably, and that this lovely place hasn’t unsettled you both too much. I’m so glad that you feel about Max the way you do. All the things you said about him on your last night here, are perfectly true. I sometimes wonder at the amazing fortune that sent me down here, to meet him. When I think of the various people I knew in London—well, there just isn’t one to touch him. I told Mrs. Lorney some of the nice things you said—which pleased her much, as you can imagine. And about Jessica, Mother, I can’t help feeling that you exaggerate. She doesn’t like me—that is obvious to anybody. In fact, one might say that she dislikes me intensely. But hate is a strong word, and when you say that you don’t like to think of the two of us living in the same house, I can’t help thinking that you’re taking it too seriously. After all, what can she do? She would like to poison the others against me, but they see too clearly the exact situation. It isn’t really me—it’s just anybody who would marry Max. I’ve thought about it very seriously, because Max seemed to take it seriously: he came into my room one night to say goodnight to me, and when he went he found Jessica waiting outside, with a very angry and turbulent look about her. It seemed to worry him a little; so I thought it over. And I’ve come to the conclusion that this jealousy indicates some fear, or some lack of confidence on Jessica’s part. She’s frightened of losing everything. She thinks she’s lost Max and the loyalty of her family, and she doesn’t quite know what she is going to lose next It made me feel very sorry for her. I wish somebody would come along and marry her, and give her something else to think about—but there doesn’t seem to be anybody around at the moment. There’s a fine, handsome, upstanding sort of man called Fred Emerson who works at Audrey’s farm and lives in the village; but because he’s only a farm-hand Jessica won’t look at him and treats him abominably whenever they do meet.

However, enough of Jessica’s problem. Let’s talk about something more cheerful. On Monday evening, just as I was leaving White Lodge (I stayed to tea as Mrs. H. was on her own) Neville arrived in his car. He had decided to come home for a week’s holiday, he said, and he had noticed as he came through our market town, that there was a dance tonight at the big hotel there—in aid of some local charity or other; and he wanted me to go. Well, you know how I like to dance. I was rather keen about it, so I went back to White Lodge and rang up Max, and asked if he would mind. He said he was surprised that I thought it necessary to ask such a question, and that he would like me to go, and enjoy myself. So I arranged with Neville when to pick me up, and then I came home to the farm to have supper and to get ready.

I wore my apricot dress and silver sandals. When I heard Neville’s car coming down the lane, I went downstairs and into the kitchen (he always comes in the back way). I was hoping that the family would be in the sitting room, but Jessica (of all people) and Aunt Hilda were in the kitchen, and they stared at me in surprise. Aunt Hilda said: “Going out, my dear?” which should have been obvious as I don’t put on a dance dress to sit at home, and Jessica just stared. Then Neville breezed in, and he seemed to have eyes for nobody but me—curse the man for his tactlessness. He said: “Hel-
l
o, beautiful,” and was all admiration. That is the way he always talks to me—it’s just his particular currency—and it doesn’t mean a thing, but Jessica apparently thought it did. I was glad to get out of the house. And just outside, attracted by the noise of the car, was Max, who had come out of the dairy or stable, I suppose. He opened the car door for me, and waved us off, telling us to have a good time. He was nice and natural and perfectly genuine, and suddenly, I wanted to weep, because it seemed all wrong for me to be going off to enjoy myself, leaving Max behind. I felt that I didn’t want to enjoy anything unless Max could enjoy it, too; and yet, you know, I
did
enjoy the dance. I had a perfectly lovely time. Tommy was there with a girl called Gretel (but I think it was a nickname) who was pert and amusing and scandalous. Neville seemed to know several people, but most of the evening he kept me to himself. He dances very well, and although he’s really rather too tall for me, we got on together famously. It felt good to be dressed up again and dancing under the colored lights to some decent music.

I got home late, and the family was in bed. Max must have been listening for me, because he came down in his dressing gown and he sat with me while I drank the milk and ate the biscuits which had been put out for me. Neville seems to think that I ought to spend the week with him, since his father is away and I’ve nothing much to do; and Max only says that it will do me good to have some tennis and dancing, so it rather looks as if Neville is getting his way again (a thing he seems to be very good at).

Darling, what a letter! This old typewriter of Max’s won’t last out much longer with all this rattle-banging.

My love to Beryl and my love to you.

Laurie.

Dear Mother:

I’m typing this in the study at White Lodge. Mr. Humphries is still away, and I have very little to do. Mrs. H. is out for the afternoon, and I could go back to the farm if it weren’t for a telephone call I have to deal with presently. Neville wanted me to go out and play tennis, but that seemed
too
impudent when I’m supposed to be earning my living—I have an easy enough time as it is; and when it comes to the point, I suppose it would be no worse to play tennis than to type private letters. However...

We had lunch together, anyway—with Mrs. Humphries, of course. While Mr. Humphries is away, and Neville is here, it seems to be taken for granted that I lunch with the family. Neville shows no sign of going. He has been here over a week now. He is a partner in a firm of wine merchants: there are three partners, apparently, one oldish man and two young men, and they have an unwritten agreement that it isn’t at all necessary for them all to be there at the same time. In this way, they all get a deal of time off, and Neville as much as anybody. The other day, Mrs. Humphries intended to ring me up and tell me not to bother to come, but Neville decided otherwise: and when I got to White Lodge, there he was, with his car waiting, and a lunch basket inside it, and he took me off to the river, and hired a punt, and off we went merrily for the greater part of the day. Now all this must sound very frivolous to you: but it can’t last much longer, for Neville must go back and do
some
work and Mr. H. will surely be home again soon; so I am taking the fun while it lasts. And it is fun. Neville is gay and irresponsible and very charming. He knows he’s charming all right—he turns it on at appropriate moments and it works every time—even with me, although I watch for it. He keeps me laughing, he seems to enjoy my company. But we did agree that we wouldn’t mention the punting incident generally—although I told Max at the first opportunity, and Max said at once what I quite expected him to say—that he liked to know I was enjoying myself.

By the way, I meant to tell you about Jessica. She refused, in a most determined manner, to be a bridesmaid at my wedding. I broached the subject to Mrs. Lorney first, and she wanted Jess to be bridesmaid, but Jess never even considered it. She was so final, that I didn’t attempt to persuade her. So there will be two bridesmaids—Diana and Beryl; and I’d like to know Beryl’s ideas about color so that I can arrange it with Diana. It’s a pity about Jessica, because I think several people already suspect that there is no love lost between us; and lots more will be added to the number now. But I really can’t go on bothering about her...

I see Neville approaching across the lawn. I expect he is coming in to pester me, so I will close. Sorry that so much of this is about him, but he has monopolized a lot of my time of late.

With my love to you,

Laurie.

Dear Mother:

We are in the thick of harvesting, and I don’t seem to have had a moment for writing for weeks. Max never seems to have a moment to spare; because all the ordinary farm work has to carry on.

Not only was it the work in the fields; there is also the fruit to cope with. It sounds romantic, doesn’t it, picking plums and apples and such? But it’s awfully hard work. Mrs. Lorney uses a terrific amount for the house, and the rest is sold. You would be astonished at the amount that is put up; jars and jars of plum jam, dozens and dozens of bottles of plums, pears, black currents, gooseberries, lots of them were done earlier in the year, but we’ve been doing the plums lately. Mrs. Lorney took me into the pantry the other day and showed me the amount she had done. And she said: “We have to come to some arrangement, Laurie, about the housekeeping. I think myself that, the best way for a bride to start, is in her own house with her husband, and nobody else, so that she can do things in her own way and make her mistakes in private. But it doesn’t look as if that is possible for you.” She was wonderful about it. She said that she would make things as easy as she could (of course I said that I would, too); and that we’d make our arrangements about the cooking and so on. She is perfectly willing to go on doing the housekeeping; and perfectly willing to hand over any of it that I want to undertake. So I spoke up about the lumber room, and said I would like it for our sitting room; and that Max’s room would do for our bedroom, and I would like the little room I sleep in now for a spare room. This means that I can have you to stay whenever I wish without upsetting anybody. Mrs. Lorney agreed at once; and suggested that we had a dining table in one corner of the sitting room so that when we wished we could have our meals alone. For the beginning, we shall continue to eat in the kitchen with the family.

All this makes the wedding seem very close; but we haven’t time to do anything much until the harvest is in. Max has seen the decorators about the room, and I’m getting quite excited. With the money that you’ve promised us for a present, I’m going to buy the most comfortable settee I can find, and one or two super chairs. Mrs. Humphries came into the White Lodge study the other day to talk to me, and she gave me choice (for a wedding present) between a cheque and a carpet that she had had in the house for many years. She took me upstairs to see it, and it was a lovely Chinese carpet in a wonderful shade of gold, so I plumped immediately for the carpet and shall probably work my scheme around it.

Everybody is being simply delightful to me, with the sole exception of Jessica. They seem to feel that it’s hardly fair to me to be so busy about something else, but I think that while they’re harvesting, it isn’t fair to think about weddings. I’ve been looking at the harvest as a sort of end to be attained; but when I was talking to Max and Roger about what we’d do afterwards, they both laughed. Max said: “Well, I expect I shall be thinking about the threshing then,” and Roger said: “And I shall start ploughing up the stubble once more.” And so it goes on, all the time, year in and year out; and the moment one crop is cut and gathered in, the next one has to be thought about.

Write to me soon, love,

Ever your,

Laurie.

Dear Mother:

Thank you for the parcels. The dress is a perfect fit; although I was rather afraid it wouldn’t be with only that one hasty fitting; and the other things are lovely. I knew I could rely on your taste; and if Beryl really wants to give me that heavenly dressing gown for a present (though it’s really too expensive), well I couldn’t have chosen anything I’d like better.

The shopping expedition was very exciting and all too brief; but I had such a strange feeling of not belonging in London any more. I had imagined that I would feel as if I were coming home, when I stepped off the train at the station; but oddly enough, I felt detached from all the bustle and the noise. I was familiar with it all, but it didn’t seem to have much to do with my life. Now when I got back here it seemed like coming back to a place I had known all my life, which doesn’t make sense. Max met me at the station and drove me to the farm, and as we came down into the village, I thought of it as my village, and when we turned in to the farm lane, I felt that every clod of earth belonged to me and I to it.

I got a great thrill out of riding on the reaper-and-binder at harvest, and seeing the corn going down cleanly and quickly; and out of stooking the bundles into those lovely straight rows climbing the sloping field. I took a photograph of that, and it has come out beautifully, chock-full of cloud effect and diminishing stooks and atmosphere. I’m having it enlarged to hang on one of my walls. Max laughed and said I would soon have so much farming that I wouldn’t want it inside as well as out; but I feel that I’ll never have too much of it.

You and Beryl are to stay here for the wedding, and I am booking rooms at the village inn for Christopher, John and Rosalind. The farmhouse will be crammed to bursting point if all the people who have been invited turn up; and I am thankful that Max and I can cut and run, and leave everybody soon after the feast. We have decided after all to spend a week in London, and then a week somewhere on the south coast, and then to come back to rusticate.

Max has just called me to go and see the lovely night. There’s a full moon and we’re going for a walk. So goodnight, Mother.

Lots of love to you,

Laurie.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Laurie
stepped over and around the furniture that was stacked into the hall, and opened the door of what had been the lumber room. Roger, who had been enlisted in the role of furniture mover, went off to the kitchen, falling her to call him if she needed more help. Laurie nodded and smiled, and went in, to find Max on his knees before the fireplace, lighting a fire.

“It’s so long since the room was used,” he said, “that it needs warming up and airing. And I want to see if the fire smokes.”

Laurie looked round critically at the empty room. “Yes,” she decided, “it looks very nice.”

“I think so, too,” said Max. “It’s going to be a lovely room when we’ve finished with it.”

The floor had been washed and polished. The Chinese carpet was rolled up in one corner of the room, waiting to be spread out. All the paintwork glistened, and the plain paper was new. The settee that Laurie had promised herself, stood against one wall, waiting to be disposed of—a settee that had been an extravagance, and whose luxurious comfort proclaimed the fact. Built-in bookshelves waited for Laurie’s books.

He let her go and she slipped off her coat, waiting for him to light the candles; but he made no move for the matches. He walked to the window, and she went to his side.

Max straightened himself, looked down at the fire to be sure it was going to burn, and then turned to Laurie. “Right,” he said, “where do we begin?”

“With the underfelt and the carpet And then we’ll get in the furniture and arrange it My books can go up at any time.”

The two of them set to work with a will, happy and excited to be making their home together. They spread the carpet and stopped to admire its beauty, before they placed the settee, brought in the armchairs, the gate-leg table with rush-bottomed chairs for occasions when they wanted privacy, the coffee table and the radio. The piano was already installed, yet with all this furniture ,the room remained spacious and uncrowded. The fire had blazed up in the hearth, and the whole room had an air of cheerfulness and quiet comfort.

“It’s beautiful,” said Laurie. “I’ll put up the curtains tomorrow and all the books.”

“I can’t help feeling,” said Max, “that you’re not getting off to a very good start, Laurie.”

“Nonsense. What more could I want? I’ve got my own rooms, which is essential; and apart from that I’ve got the run of the whole house. If I had to live here and manage the whole place, well, I should never be able to do it. It would be nothing but hard work. As it is, I have a delightful sitting room, two bedrooms, use of the kitchen, my own place in the pantry, the office, and a whole lot of advantages. Don’t think I’m not satisfied; why, if I married a Londoner and lived in a small house there, I should do no better.”

“As long as you don’t feel that you’re being pushed into a corner of the house.”

“Darling, of course I don’t. Besides, even if I had had to live in with your family completely, I would have been glad to do it, to be married to you. It’s nicer this way, of course, but don’t talk about a poor start.”

“Come here and sit down for a moment.”

“Well, I thought it would be nice to get the little tallboy out of the spare room, to stand against that wall.”

“I don’t really think we need anything more, but if we do, it can wait until tomorrow, because I want you to come here.”

Laurie obediently crossed the room to his side, and he pulled her down into the settee before the fire. She went gladly into his arms.

“
Isn’t
it comfortable?” she said.

“Too comfortable for a man with hard work always calling him.”

“Think how nice it will be for you when you come in from milking in the winter.”

“Hmmm. I can’t realize yet that you’ll still be here in the winter.”

“You’ll realize it soon, darling. Only five more days.”

“Thank God.”

“Are you going to hate all the fuss so much?”

“I wasn’t thinking about the wedding. I was thinking of the time I’ve waited for you.”

“Oh Max, not so long. We’ve known each other a bare six months.”

“But I wanted you almost as soon as you set foot in the house.”

“Well, I can’t truthfully say that I fell in love quite as soon as that; but I do remember thinking, that very first afternoon, when Mr. Humphries brought me here, that you were certain to be married. You were so handsome and looked so nice.”

“Lies,” said Max pleasantly, “you’re trying to flatter me.”

“Well, it’s the truth, but it doesn’t matter if you believe it.”

“I remember being pleasantly surprised by you. I hadn’t had experience of anybody quite like you before. There were of course, always the girls like Diana; and some of them were very smart and very self-possessed and quite determined to have a love-affair with me—if you don’t mind the implicit conceit in that. But there was always a gulf between us, because they were people of leisure and I was a man who had to work and work hard. They recognized the gulf as well as I did. Apart from them there were the girls of the farming community; and they were a known quantity. You weren’t like any of them, and you bowled me over. You took things more seriously than the leisured girls; but you had more liveliness and fun than most of the farm girls. You seemed to me to have the best qualities of both. Well, in short, I fell in love with you, and every day of the six months I’ve known you, I’ve gone deeper and deeper in.”

“Well, it certainly goes for me too.”

“If only you won’t miss the gaiety you’ve been used to.”

“I shall find things to do to replace the things I used to do. For instance, I suppose you’d like to have a family?”

He hugged her by way of reply.

“I’m twenty-five,” said Laurie, “and you’re thirty-five. I’d like to have a baby right away. I want to be young with my children. Don’t you?”

“I’m hardly young now,” Max pointed out.

“Well, there’s no need to be any older.”

“I’m not at all sure that I want to share you with anything. I want to be entirely selfish and have you concentrate on me.”

Laurie laughed.

“Well, we have all our lives in front of us. There’s no hurry. But I wonder how soon you’ll wish I wouldn’t concentrate on you?”

“Never. Never. I feel that I’m going to love you until we’re both old and grey and definitely doddering.”

“What a horrible picture. But I suppose you’d have to feel that way or you wouldn’t be in love. But why do we sit here talking about love, when I have so much to do?”

“Why do we sit here
talking
about love?” he echoed, and twisted her round in his arms to kiss her lips. She lay in his arms in the big settee, happy and elated, and was content to ignore the many tasks that awaited her.

* * *

The day of the wedding dawned misty and damp; but when Laurie expressed her concern, Max reassured her that it would be a lovely day when the sun broke through, and when Mrs. Lorney and Aunt Hilda both reminded them that the groom should not see the bride until the actual ceremony, Max laughed and said it would be impossible for Laurie was all over the house. Mrs. Giles had arrived and Beryl the day before, and Laurie had been showing them things ever since, inside and outside the farmhouse. This morning, they had packed for her, and were going to help her dress. In the kitchen, Mrs. Lorney and Martha were putting the final touches to the tables for the wedding breakfast, while Max and Roger were trying to get through the essential farm jobs in a hurry before changing for the important ceremony. Max had gone out to the milking as usual—Roger had helped with the rest of the stock. Jessica, in her breeches and jersey, carried on as usual, giving no less time to her poultry and refusing to be carried away by the infectious busyness and excitement in the house.

The routine of the average wedding day was carried through. But one item disconcerted everybody, and caused alarm to some, annoyance to others, amused resignation to a few. When it was time for the family to leave for the church Jessica could not be found. Search over the house and in her room revealed nothing, except that her new dress was in her room untouched, and wherever Jess was, she still wore her breeches and sweater.

“But I don’t understand it,” said Mrs. Lorney, waiting attired in her new best, in the hall. “I saw her not so long ago, and reminded her that it was time to dress. She went upstairs then, I’m pretty sure.”

“Well, she isn’t there now,” said Roger, “and we haven’t time to stop and look for her, or to wait for her to change. If she wants to sulk, let her sulk.”

So the family went off to the church in various cars, leaving Mrs. Giles to follow with Laurie; and they did not mention Jessica’s defection to Laurie, in order not to worry her. When the car returned, Mrs. Giles and Laurie got into it, with Martha waving them off with a beaming smile; then Martha returned to the kitchen to await the whole party. It was not long before everybody was back again, and a host of other people were with them. The house filled up with a swarm of laughing, friendly people. Laurie was flushed and happy, her eyes shining, looking beautiful and contented. Max, in a brief interlude with his mother, asked: “Anybody seen Jess?”

“No,” said Mrs. Lorney. “She hasn’t turned up, and nobody has seen her. They’re all asking about her.”

“What are you saying?”

“That she’ll be here in a minute. What else can I say?”

“Where the devil has she got to?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.”

“Don’t worry about her, Mother.”

“I do, a little. She’s been jealous all through. I’m wondering just how unhappy she’s been.”

“Don’t worry about her. She’s all right.”

“If she’s just sulking, I shall be very angry with her.”

“I don’t think that’s much good.”

“I do wish she would come in.”

Laurie said to Max: “What happened to Jessica?”

“We don’t know. She just disappeared.”

“Your mother’s worried, isn’t she?”

“She is, rather. It’s so unusual.”

“You don’t think Jess would do—anything silly?”

“No—I don’t think so. I can’t honestly believe she’s as unhappy as that.”

“Nor do I. She’s spoiling our wedding day for us.”

“But not on purpose, Laurie.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her, Max. I wish she would show up.”

The small undercurrent of anxiety and annoyance ran through everything for Laurie. When she went upstairs to change into her travelling suit, Beryl and her mother helping her, she said: “Jessica is a perfect nuisance; spoiling everything like this.”

“Don’t think about her,” advised her mother.

“I can’t help it. It worries me, to have this disagreeable unfriendliness all the time. It wasn’t necessary to go off and advertise to everybody that she hates me.”

“I suppose she isn’t so jealous that she’d do herself—well—any harm?” asked Beryl diffidently.

“I asked Max that. He didn’t think so.” But the point worried Laurie, and when she went downstairs, ready to start on her journey with Max, her first question was whether Jess had arrived or not; and on being told that there was no sign of her, she said that she would not go until Jess returned.

“She’s only sulking,” said Roger, coming over to the corner where Laurie talked with Max. “Don’t wait.”

“But Max is worried; and I want to know that she’s all right.”

“She wants a thorough drubbing,” said Roger.

“I think we’d better go,” said Max. “We shall lose our train; and we can ring up later in the day to find out if Jess is all right.”

“Oh, well, then. If you think that best.” Laurie sighed, tried to banish the faint depression that this incident had brought to her, and went through the jovial and cordial farewells with as much merriness as she could muster.

* * *

From the London hotel where they were spending their first week, Max telephoned to the farm in the evening. Jessica had returned, quite safe, and supremely indifferent to any inconvenience or anxiety she had caused. Max, speaking to Roger, advised him to get on right away with the beating, and rang off to tell Laurie.

“Well, she’s back,” he said. “And all she says is that she didn’t want to be at the wedding.”

“As long as she’s all right, I won’t bother about her. But why must she be so difficult?”

“I refuse to be concerned about Jess any more today. All right now, Laurie?”

“Yes, all right now.”

“The little black cloud gone?”

“Yes, but I can’t quite forget it.”

“Forget it, darling. Think of us instead. Do you like this place?”

“Yes. I always wanted to stay here, but there wasn’t any need for such extravagance, living dose at hand. I’m going to have a bath and change and we’ll go down to dinner; and after that, we’ll go out for a walk and see the lights o’ London.”

They sat opposite each other in the discreetly lighted dining room, Laurie in a dress of dark red that lent her an air of vitality and richness, Max unfamiliar in the black and white of evening dress.

“It seems strange to be alone with you, Max. We haven’t had much time alone, have we?”

“We’re hardly alone now.”

Laurie glanced round the rapidly filling dining room. “More alone than in the kitchen at home. Even at breakfast we have Aunt Hilda—and we can only be sure of being alone if we go out.”

“That won’t apply in future.”

“No. It’s going to be lovely—and different. What shall we do after dinner?”

“Going for a walk, aren’t we? It’s a warm night, and I like London after dark.”

So they went for a walk together, arm in arm along the Mall with the lamps shining through the trees and making patterns on the walk, with cars gliding silently along the road, and stars twinkling overhead. They did not talk—it was enough for them to be together, with a novel element of strangeness in their changed background. Max knew little of London, having no need to be there and no great love of towns. Laurie knew it intimately, and found a special delight in being able to translate her London to Max. She knew which theatres she wanted to go to, and promised to book seats in the morning: she knew which restaurants were the best and the best times to go: she knew which parts of London Max must see, and intended to take him. “I think,” Max had said laughingly, when they discussed their plans in the train, “that the one thing in London I do know intimately is the Zoo. Whenever I came to London as a boy (and it wasn’t often), I spent most of my time at the Zoo, and the rest in museums. So we can leave out the Zoo.”

But for this night, they did not want to do anything; and having strolled a good way, and having had a generally tiring day, they went back to their hotel and up to their rooms.

The weather was kind to them that week. An Indian summer made the end of September warm and mellow, and no autumn winds had yet torn the leaves from the trees. Laurie and Max did some sightseeing, went to theatres, made a round of the famous restaurants, and then, for a pleasant change, went back to their hotel and rested in the room that overlooked the park and the swiftly gliding traffic. There was a delightful intimacy in being together in the swarming millions of London and yet being alone together; but on their fourth day their solitude was disturbed. For as they walked the pavement of Piccadilly on their way to a matinee, a tall fair man walked full tilt into Max, and stood back to reveal an astonished Neville.

“Hallo,” he said. “The honeymoon couple.”

“Hallo, Neville,” smiled Laurie. “You’re in a great hurry.”

“Not now I’ve met you. Where are you off to?”

“A theatre, and we haven’t a great deal of time.”

“Then I won’t keep you, but will you dine with me one evening? Or do you want to be by yourselves? If you’d care to, we could make it this evening.”

“We’d like to,” said Max, seeking confirmation from Laurie. Laurie agreed, and the place was fixed upon.

“Can you recommend married life?” asked Neville.

“Well—” they laughed. “On such short acquaintance, yes, but you must ask us again ten years from now.”

“I will,” he promised, hurrying away and leaving them to their matinee.

It was a pleasant evening, with Neville as a very accomplished host. “Oh, I’m
persona grata
here,” he said. “I do something in the way of wines for them from time to time.” He could talk amusingly and frivolously, and he looked very handsome in his well-cut evening clothes. He was genuinely fond of Max, and he admired Laurie. In fact, he admired her more this evening than at any other time. She wore her red dress and it was not lost upon him that she had an added richness and vitality in it. Her eyes always shone, he decided—they always had an eager, interested curiosity about life, and a keen appreciation of it. Yes, Laurie was nice to be with. She had the very agreeable characteristic of making the people she was with feel attractive and interesting and worth while. She gave her interest wholeheartedly and was more concerned with making people feel at home than in impressing herself upon them. ‘Very nice,’ thought Neville, ‘and very restful, too. She’s easy to be with.’

If Neville felt it, Max felt it a thousand times more. Laurie was not exacting or demanding. She was always willing to adjust her plans to suit him; she could always see the sensible point of view; she always looked upon things generously. But more than this, she was generous in her love. There was no stinting where Laurie was concerned. She made him happier than he had expected to be since, as a young man, he had dreamed of the impossible; and his love for her grew with every moment of their week in London and their week by the sea, until it seemed to him it must be obvious to everybody as the most fatuous adoration: and he tried to keep it a little concealed when they returned to the farm.