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Somehow, she was convinced, that barrier of silence between them must be broken down, but how, she had no idea, since she still felt that John and not herself must make the first move.

However, there was no time to brood on that now. She had thought she had left plenty of time to dress for dinner, but at the last moment Miss Fletcher had come to see her and had rambled on at great length with complaints about the sleeping arrangements. She was used to having a room of her own. She didn’t think it suitable that she should have to share a dormitory with the children. She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since coming to Lindacres—

Rosamund let her run on, not so much listening to the complaints, repeated over and over again, as making use of the opportunity to study Miss Fletcher. Very quickly she decided that Dr. Milward was right—there was something wrong with her visitor. Physically, she was a bad colour and far too thin. That, of course, might be due to the grumbling appendix. But there were other signs of trouble as well. The nervous twitch of her mouth, the restlessness of her hands and the way in which her eyes fell so quickly from one’s own. She was in a state of considerable nervous tension. That might be apprehension at the possibility of an operation—but it might not.

Whichever it was, a glance at her watch told Rosamund that she had no time to try to find out now. She terminated the interview by standing up, leaving Miss Fletcher no choice but to do the same.

“Of course, Miss Fletcher, we must remember that in an emergency arrangements can’t always he perfect,” she pointed out.~“And what final decisions will be made must, I think, depend largely on how long you are all going to be here. But that, as I’m sure you will appreciate, does not depend on me. However, Sir George Parks is dining with us tonight. I may have an opportunity of discussing your complaint with him—”

“Oh, please, don’t do that!” Miss Fletcher said agitatedly, positively cringing. “The last thing I want to do is to make difficulties.”

“I see,” Rosamund said slowly and, indeed, she thought she did. Miss Fletcher, she was reasonably sure, was afraid of losing her job, and that fitted in with her refusal to go to hospital. “Well, thank you for letting me know how you feel, Miss Fletcher. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I really am short of time—”

Miss Fletcher scuttled away and Rosamund went to her bedroom.

Twenty minutes later she joined John and Sir George showing no signs whatever of having hurried through her preparations.

She was wearing a gauzy silk dress of an unusual shade of green. It sparkled subtly with a hint of gold thread and the huge, bat-wing sleeves fluttered attractively with every movement of her arms. For the rest, it was very plain, moulded to her slim body with flattering emphasis. She had no time to do much about make-up or hair, though the sophistication of the dress would have warranted it. Her hair, which John was used to seeing loose, she had gathered into the nape of her neck, fastening it with a big Victorian tortoiseshell clip. It was a severe style, but it revealed the delicacy of her features to perfection. All in all, she looked charming, poised and essentially feminine. And she knew it—the sudden, startled look in John’s eyes and the flattering appreciation in Sir George’s left her in no possible doubt.

John made the introduction and as Rosamund offered her hand to their guest, she smiled disarmingly.

“I must apologise, Sir George, for not being here to greet you," she said with the charming deference of a young woman to a considerably older man. “I was delayed by a slight domestic problem.”

“Please don’t apologise, Mrs. Lindsay,” Sir George said warmly. “After all that you have already done to help us, you and your husband, I feel that it is an imposition to add to your burden by coming here to dine. But there is a lot to be decided and it is vital that an early decision should be made about the suitability of this house for any protracted period.”

“Yes, indeed,” Rosamund murmured. “A sherry, please, John,” she turned her head to say as he walked over to the cocktail cabinet. She turned back to Sir George who was eagerly waiting to resume their conversation.

“You spoke of a domestic problem, Mrs. Lindsay. I hope it really was a slight one—and that none of our people caused it?”

Rosamund smiled reassuringly.

“It really was just a trifle, Sir George, and as for your people—they’re being most co-operative, I do assure you!” And if that was stretching the truth a little where Miss Fletcher was concerned, she had no intention of telling tales out of school. “Of course there are bound to be some adjustments to be made, but I’m sure that won’t take long! ”

“If that is so, then I’m quite sure, from what I have heard, that it' will, in no small part, be due to your charming self!”

The compliment was rather too fulsome for Rosamund’s taste, and as John handed her the glass of sherry, she saw from his expression that he hadn’t liked it either.

She made up her mind that as far as possible, for the rest of the evening she would keep in the background or even, once dinner was over, that she would leave the two men to discuss the situation on their own. But this proved to be impossible. Sir George laid such stress on the value of a woman’s point of view that she had no choice but to stay, and since he referred to her constantly, to give her opinions.

Fortunately, in the majority of cases, they happened to be the same as John’s. None the less, as the evening wore on, she took matters into her own hands, explaining that she had several letters to write which must catch the early post in the morning—would Sir George excuse her?

A few more compliments—thanks for the perfect dinner and the valuable help she had given—an apology for having detained her so long—and she was free. But once the door had closed behind her, Rosamund hesitated. There were some letters she had to write, but they weren’t really as important as all that—an overpowering desire to escape from the house, if only briefly, took possession of her and she surrendered to it before she had time for second thoughts.

Letting herself out by way of a side door, she walked swiftly to the open swimming pool. By day she had felt that its garish modernity was in doubtful taste, but now, in the gentle light of the moon, it was transformed. Dim purple shadows softened the angular lines of the low buildings which surrounded that pool and the still, dark water was spangled with stars.

Rosamund found a chaise-longue and with a little sigh of relief relaxed at full length on it. She lay perfectly still, gazing straight up at the heavens, and for a while she lost herself in the remote beauty, conscious only of a sense of being a part, however small, of it all.

Then, abruptly, the spell was broken. She swung her feet to the ground at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was John.

“Well,” he drawled, “our visitor has gone at last! He evidently didn’t feel it was worth staying once you had withdrawn your charming presence !”

Rosamund didn’t answer. John was not only very angry, he was trying to goad her to a hot retort.

“And small wonder, of course,” he went on ironically. “Since you were out to charm, weren’t you? Both by your manner and your appearance! Enough to make any man lose his head! You know—” he regarded her critically, his head on one side—“you’re an extremely beautiful woman, Rosamund. Far more beautiful than I had realised. But then, of course, I’ve never seen you in your fine feathers before, have I? You pay for dressing, my dear!”

Rosamund stood up. Her hands were clenched to her sides. She was almost at breaking point, yet somehow she must maintain her self-control. Otherwise there would be a complete breach between them.

“I’m tired,” she said quietly. “And I shall need to get up early tomorrow—”

She turned to leave him, but his hand shot out, swinging her round to face him.

“Wait!” he commanded menacingly. “I’ve something more to say!” He surveyed her from head to foot with hot, possessive eyes. “Yes, quite lovely enough to make a man lose his head ! Rosamund—” his hands were gripping her shoulders now with painful forces—“we can’t go on like this ! Do you understand?”

Rosamund stood very still, neither responding to his grasp nor shrinking from it.

“Then what do you suggest we should do?” she asked almost inaudibly.

“Do?” John repeated harshly. “Well, for one thing, I suggest that you should remember something you seem to have forgotten—that you
are
my wife!”

DESPERATELY Rosamund tried to free herself, but there was no escape from the merciless arms that crushed her as John’s lips sought hers in a kiss that held neither tenderness nor love. A kiss that made something in her shrivel and die.

This was not the John she had fallen in love with. This was a man who believed that everybody had -their price and that money could buy anything, everything. And there was no appeal from that conviction. It was an ingrained part of his nature and the man she had believed him to be had never existed except in her own silly dreams.

Then, so suddenly that she stumbled, she was free. For a moment John stood rigid, staring blindly at her white, quivering face. Then his lips parted.

“I wish to heaven we’d not got married!” he told her with a vehemence so intense that it had the quality of a physical blow.

He turned sharply away, leaving Rosamund to a silence from which all peace and tranquillity had been wrenched. In its place was the silence of utter despair.

At first, when John’s footsteps had died away, she sat motionless on the chaise-longue, too numbed to think coherently. Then, vaguely aware that she was shivering violently, she made her way slowly back to the house and gained the sanctuary of her own room. For a while she listened, but heard no sound to tell her if John was in his room or whether, indeed, he had returned to the house at all.

Mechanically she undressed and got into bed to lie wide-eyed and rigid, unable to sleep, unable to feel—

Then, slowly, agonisingly, feeling returned.

John had said he wished they’d not got married. The words hammered relentlessly in her brain. And then she realised that she was speaking aloud, just as if he was there and she was answering him:

“And so do I!”

It was true! If they had never met, if, in her blind adoration of John, she had never known such happiness, then she would never have experienced the bitter disillusion that was hers now.

She lashed herself with bitter scorn. What a fool she had been—what a naive, credulous little fool with her schoolgirl hero-worship and her belief that love conquered everything! She had been so sure that John was everything that was fine and true and all the time—
^:
she closed her eyes as if to shut out the memory, but it was useless. She knew John now as he really was and with that came understanding. There was only one thing for her to do. She must leave him—for good. What else was there to do when their marriage was such a mockery? All her dreams were shattered—and it was John who had destroyed them.

Until now she had found excuses for his lack of faith in her. The evidence had looked black against her. And quite likely, before they had met, there had been people to whom his money had meant more than his friendship. Because of that, she had made up her mind that, however difficult it might be, he should always find a loyalty and a love in her which would restore his faith in himself and his fellow beings. Now she knew that to have imagined such a thing to be possible was just one more foolish dream.

But there would be no more dreams. On that she was determined. From now on, she would accept only reality, however unpleasant it might be. Dreams were part of the past on which she would shut the door, never to open it again.

Not that she could ever again be the heart-happy girl of those few weeks which had followed the day when she had freed herself from the bondage which her aunt had imposed on her. She could put John out of her life in the sense that she would never see him again, but always his shadow would darken the future. Never again would she trust or believe in any human being alive! John had imbued her. with his own lack of faith and always she would doubt her own judgement. She would even discredit her own motives—

She slept at last as dawn was filtering through the curtains to wake when her morning tea was brought in. And her first thought was simply a repetition of her decision of the night before:

“I will leave Lindacres today!”

And nothing should be allowed to stand in her way.

Then she saw that propped up against the teacup was a letter addressed to her in John’s handwriting.

Her face hardened as she picked it up and held it, unopened, in her hand. Since nothing John could say would make her change her mind, what was the point in reading it? Then, with a shrug, she slit it open. It would make no difference, but she might as well know what he had to say—

Her eyes widened as she read. Without preamble, John had written:

“After my discussion with Sir George last night, it is necessary for me to go to London to consult my solicitor on various points that emerged.

“I expect to be away about a week and I shall be grateful if you will take over in my absence on the clear understanding that you have entire authority to make whatever decisions you may feel are necessary.

John”

Her hand shook as she laid the letter down on the quilt. Her first reaction was one of resentment. After what had happened last night, after what he had said, what right had he to take her compliance for granted like this? Even his use of the word “grateful” didn’t mollify her. It was nothing more than a form of words carefully chosen to mask the fact that in reality he was giving an order. Sheer expediency, that was all.

She was quite sure of that. John saw everything from one point of view only—his own. To the feelings of others he was completely insensible unless he had to take them into consideration in order to get what he wanted.. From such a man one could expect neither compassion nor kindliness. And certainly not love as she had dreamed it could be. Well, one thing was very sure. Never again would he be able to hoodwink her in that way and never, never again would she allow herself to dream ! It made one too painfully vulnerable.