The composition of the letter to Wivernsea needed all the powers Miss Chantrelle could bring to bear upon it. They were in no way of a mean order.

She did not, however, grudge time or labour; the expenditure was in a good cause: Percy had been on the matrimonial stocks too long; his was the kind of beauty which age withered rather than ripened.

A little sigh of content escaped her when, at last, she had finished writing. Leaning back in her chair, the end of the penholder between her lips, she read:

My Dearest Mab,—Isn't it a tiny little world? Just fancy—my brother and I are coming back to England on the same boat your brother is travelling by! Dear old Dick! He looks so strong and well; better I think than I have ever seen him look. With him is Mr. Masters—oh, of course, I ought to congratulate you, oughtn't I?—but I will leave that till I see you. It is a good job you are not of a jealous disposition, Mab, or I am afraid there would be a rough time ahead for you: Mr. Masters is such a dreadful flirt! He has been most popular with all the ladies on board, and made violent love to me within twenty-four hours of meeting me! He did not succeed in my case, though (not because of you, my darling Mab, because I had not heard of your engagement to him then) but I do not like a man who makes love to every woman he meets; whom you run across in odd parts of the boat engrossed in conversation with some pretty girl, generally a different one each time. But there, I must not say anything against him, or you will never forgive me. Besides, if you don't mind it, what does it matter? Of course, there's no real harm in what he does—don't think I want to insinuate that, it is the last thing I mean—as the girls must know he is only flirting; perhaps his heart is with you all the time. How beautiful it must be to have such faith as yours—I am afraid I'm not gifted that way. You must be very fond of him if all he says is true: that you dote on the ground he walks on, etc., etc., etc. Asked if the marriage day had been fixed, he replied that that only rested with himself! Fancy that; Aren't the men growing dreadfully cheeky? Your brother has asked us to come down to Wivernsea for Christmas. I never saw a man grow so awfully white as Percy did when he heard of your forthcoming marriage to Mr. Masters. Till then I had had no idea that he—but there, that would be telling tales out of school. We are coming to spend Christmas, unless, dear Mabel, you would rather we did not. If for that or any reason you would rather we did not come just now, wire to us, care of Charing Cross cloak room, when you get this. We shall quite understand that it is not convenient just now. You know what a dear, impulsive boy Dick is; he absolutely insists on our coming; says you will be really pleased to see us. I do hope so, darling. I have a recollection of many, many happy days spent with you.

With all my love,
Believe me, dearest Mabel,
Your ever true friend,
Amy.

As she folded the letter and directed its envelope she muttered:

"I think this puts a spoke in Prince Charlie's wheel! If I know anything of Mabel's pride, this won't ensure open arms and the warmest of welcomes for him."

She hesitated a moment, then laughed; continued:

"There is no scrap of fear of my letter ever being produced. Her pride would not allow her to do that, and she overruns with it."

Amy Chantrelle was a clever woman; that fact has been recorded. In addition to knowing what to say and how to say it, she correctly foresaw just the effect it would produce. Her study of womankind was a very close one.

The letter sent to Wivernsea carried all its intended evil. The descent of a bombshell could not have had a more disturbing effect. After perusal of it, Mrs. Seton-Carr was simply furious. Amy had not relied on the widow's pride in vain. Moreover, her belief in the proverb was justified: throw enough mud, some of it sticks.

The letter was read over and over again. Each time an effort was made to disbelieve its contents, each time the bad impression became deeper: that there is no smoke without fire.

Laughter would have resulted at the impertinence of Masters' conduct, as detailed in the letter, if she had not cared for the man. That was the weak point.

Not a day passed without her thoughts being full of him. The letter came as a blow; a blow of the severely hurting sort. Wounded pride is hard of healing: there is generally some poison in the wound; it is apt to spread too, and endanger the hurt.

By the same mail which brought the Chantrelle episode she received a letter from her brother Dick. It told her that he was coming down to Wivernsea to spend his Christmas; that Prince Charlie was coming too.

Apart from the pleasure of receiving a letter from him written with an unshaking hand and the natural joy she felt at his buoyant style of writing, what he said was a big annoyance to her.

His letter exuded praise of Masters in every sentence. It was easy to read between the lines that he looked upon himself as that gentleman's future brother-in-law. This to Mrs. Seton-Carr could only fit as a confirmation of her friend Amy's letter.

Pride and a readily aroused temper usually battle together with conspicuous success. Mabel worked herself up to such a pitch of excitement that she positively cried. To think that this man—she knew in her heart of hearts that she loved him—should have the effrontery to talk of her so!

Was it to be nothing but insult from him? Could she not—was it not possible to—pay him back somehow? What had she done that he should single her out for annoyance? Whatever it might be, when was she to feel herself free from his cowardly attacks?

If only he were open about the matter; but he was not. Then came remembrance of the time of Gracie's convalescence; how he had ever treated her with uniform courtesy. She remembered, and sighed. The crown of sorrow is the remembrance of happier days.

The inaudible feet of Time continued their never-ending progress. It was not a period in which Mrs. Seton-Carr was at ease; the amount of patience in which she possessed her soul could have been easily balanced on a needle point.

The steamer bringing the quartette reached England. The four passengers kept together; travelled down to Wivernsea in the same carriage. Reached it early in Christmas week.

Dick's reluctance to allow Masters to go to his old lodgings was manifest. There were many spare rooms at Ivy Cottage, he said, so why not go there? In his opinion it was simply idiotic to pig in at digs. But Masters had ideas of his own; at that moment they did not fit in with his friend's.

The Chantrelles went on with Dick to Ivy Cottage. It was arranged that Masters should turn up there in the evening in time for dinner.

He had been a trifle reluctant to accept that invitation at Dick's hand, but did so. He could have kicked himself, later, for doing so. As for Dick, the nearer they drew to the point where separation must come, the more full of admiration and real affection he became. He rested uneasily whenever his friend was out of his sight.

Masters impatiently ticked off the hours till the arrival of dinner-time. He wanted so to see the woman he loved. Wanted a quiet ten minutes, that he might pour out his heart to her. He was willing to ask her forgiveness on his knees—had she not knelt to him? Had a heart-aching, a tongue-itching, to tell her that she was the one woman in the world for him.

Things are not always disposed as man proposes; he did not tell her that. The quiet ten minutes did not come. When he entered Ivy Cottage before dinner it was with a light heart, the happiest man in Wivernsea. He left it after, with a heart of lead, the most miserable of men.

Beneath the surface, the dinner party was not a success; yet it cannot be said to have flagged. Almost every one was in good spirits, in too good spirits, apparently, to trouble about the quiet man who sat next to Dick.

Dick was thunderstruck at his friend's reticence. Thought at first that he must be, ridiculous as it seemed, suffering from shyness. Mrs. Seton-Carr thought she was getting a little of her own back! She got more; more than all.

Common decency prevented her cutting Masters dead. But, as nearly as was consistent with common politeness, that was what happened. As fuel to fire was the open and violent flirtation of the hostess with Percy Chantrelle.

Exultant as she was of her success, flushed as was her cheek with triumph—she knew Masters was smarting—she feared that she almost overdid it. But the pulsations of Percy's heart were accelerated; beat fast with hope: so did his sister's.

It was impossible to avoid seeing Mrs. Seton-Carr's flushed excitement. Masters noted too the soft glances she shot across the table Percy Chantrelle's way; noticed them with a feeling at his heart which was more than painful.

The author was in possession of more than his usual keenness. Perhaps it out-balanced his power of cool observation. Anyway, he saw not beneath the surface. The soundness of his deductions suffered by reason thereof.

They were happy enough, the brother and sister; the only real happiness there was around the table. Mabel was playing a part: playing it well; wore her mask with success. Her laugh rang out merrily at each of Chantrelle's jokes. But just as full as her face and voice were of mirth, so was her heart full of ache and pain.

Mrs. Seton-Carr would have given worlds just then to be able to rise from her table; she needed so greatly to go to her room for a good cry. But a Lucifer-like pride upheld her. Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone. She knew that.

The men did not remain long in union after the retirement of the ladies. To two-thirds of the trinity the cigars seemed flavourless. As a matter of fact, their respective elements lacked the power of combination.

The third factor, Chantrelle, was happy enough; triumph made him so. But there was no infection in his merriment. As a smoking-room raconteur he was usually a big success. But to-night his best stories fizzled out to lame and impotent conclusions.

The laugh of approval was conspicuously absent.