Rather to Tony's surprise, she and her father drove in silence. As a matter of fact, Sir Gambier was baffled by his younger daughter. Awdrey he could have dealt with easily enough—he was used to Awdrey's scrapes. But Tony had always been more or less impersonal—a vague some one for whom one paid school-bills, who came home for the holidays, made herself pretty scarce, and then went back to school again, to write prim letters home every Sunday. It was a new idea that this half-realised being should suddenly show herself possessed of a personality in the form of a scrape—and such a scrape too! Furlonger! He grunted with fury, but—as would never have been the case if he had had Awdrey to deal with—he said nothing.

Once, however, he looked sideways, and noticed how Tony was sitting. Her back was bent, and her arms rested on her knees, the hands clenched between them; her chin was a little thrust forward into the darkness through which they rushed.

At last they reached Shovelstrode. The moon was high above the pines, and they seemed to be waving in waters of silver. The house-front shimmered in the white light, as the motor pulsed up to it. Tony climbed down, and stood stiffly on the step.

"You'd better go to your room," said Sir Gambier in muddled rage. "I—I expect your mother will want to speak to you."

"Very well," said Tony.

She walked quickly upstairs, went into her room, and sat down on the bed. A square of moonlight lay on the floor, and the moving shadows curtsied across it. They and the pines outside seemed to be nodding to her grotesquely under the moon—they seemed to be mocking her for her great illusion lost.

"Furlonger...." she repeated to herself. "Furlonger...."

A sick quake of rage was in her heart. Her feelings were still confused, but definite grievances stood out of the jumble. This man whom she had thought so much of—in school-girl language "had a rave on"—had deceived her, told her lies, acted them, and won by them ... well, the horrible thing was that she did not really know how much or how little he had won.

But worse still was the realisation that he had made her do unconsciously something she thought wrong. Like most girls of her age she had a cast-iron code of morals. When a school-girl sets out to be moral, there is no professor of ethics or minister of religion that can touch her—her morality has behind it all the enormous force of inexperience, it can neither stretch nor bend, and it breaks only at the risk of her whole spiritual life.

She was horrified to think she had given her friendship to a scoundrel, even though she had done it ignorantly. It was like befriending a girl who cheated or told tales. For her his crime had no attraction or interest—it was just a hideous blot and defilement. She had often heard the Wickham Rubber scandal discussed, and now store-housed memories came to appal her. Hundreds of people, most of them already poor, had been ruined and plunged into misery—widows with growing families, elderly spinsters with hard-gathered savings, poor old men with the terror of the workhouse closing on them with age, had trusted this Furlonger once and execrated him now. He was like that dreadful man in the Psalms, who laid wait to murder the innocent—"he doth ravish the poor when he getteth him into his den." And she had allowed this man to be her friend, she had confided her secrets to him, she had dreamed of him and prayed to meet him.... Tony's teeth and hands clenched, and her eyes grew miserable and hard.

Then she began to wonder what had made Furlonger want her friendship. What had he and she in common? Somehow she could not for a moment believe that he had sought her out from unworthy motives. The fact would always remain that he had wanted her friendship, that he had not given her a word which was not kind or courteous, that he had come to her rescue in her hour of need ... the tears rushed to her eyes; that was the bitterest part of all—her memories of his kindliness and knight-errantry—pictures of East Grinstead, Swites Wood, Brambletye, Lingfield Park, and that little old cottage by Goatsluck Farm. Suddenly she found herself making up her mind not to join her father and mother in condemning him. She would take his part in the scene which she knew was at hand.

She soon heard her father calling her, and went down. He pointed into her mother's boudoir, a small room with French windows opening on the lawn. It was full of vague furniture and vague mixed colours, and it seemed to Tony as if she were swimming through it up to the couch where her mother lay. It never struck her as strange that her father should seem unable to deal with her himself, but should hand her over to this weak invalid, who lay with closed eyes in the lamplight.

"Now, I don't want a scene," she said, without opening them.

"Tony won't make a scene," said Sir Gambier; "she's a deep one."

"Oh, Antoinette," sighed Lady Strife—"I never was so surprised in my life as when I heard of your deceit."

"My deceit!" said Tony quickly.

"Yes—going about with a man like Furlonger, and hiding it from your father and mother—don't you call that deceit?"

"I didn't know he was Furlonger."

"But you knew it was wrong to have a secret friendship with any man whatsoever. I never heard of such a thing in a young girl of your age and position—it's what housemaids do, and not nice housemaids at that."

"Mother," cried Tony, her voice shaking unexpectedly, "it was an adventure."

"A what!" shouted Sir Gambier.

His wife winced.

"Don't startle me, dear. And let the child say what she likes—I'm glad she has a theory to explain her actions."

Strife muttered something unintelligible, but made no more interruptions.

"Now tell me, Antoinette," said her mother, "exactly how long you have known this man—and what have you and he been doing together?"

"Mother, I can't explain. I know it sounds deceitful and caddish and all that, but it—it wasn't. It was an adventure, just as I've said. I've done something."

The invalid smiled distantly.

"When you are older you will realise the superiority of thought to action. The soul is built of thoughts—actions harden and coarsen it. But we won't discuss that now. Tell me how you and he got to know each other."

"He was the man who was so splendid at East Grinstead station. He told me his name was Smith, because, of course, he didn't want me to know who he really was. Then I met him one morning when I was giving Prince a run in Swites Wood, and then another time when I'd punctured my bicycle, and...."

"Go on, Antoinette."

"Oh, you'll never understand. But he was so different from any one else I'd met. He spoke so differently—about such different things——"

"I can imagine that."

"But he wasn't horrid, mother—I swear he wasn't. He was very quiet, and interesting, and rather unhappy—and I liked him—I liked him awfully."

Lady Strife did not speak, but her eyes were wide open. As for Sir Gambier, an unheard-of thing happened—he became sarcastic.

"Oh, you liked him, did you? Found him a nice-mannered young fellow?—well-informed? I didn't know you were interested in the inner life of his Majesty's prisons."

"Father!" cried Tony sharply.

"Now, listen to me, dear," said her mother; "you are very young, and consequently very inexperienced. A grown-up person would at once have realised that this man's friendship for you could not be disinterested."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that he's not the type of man who would naturally want to be the friend of a young and innocent girl like you. He must have had some ulterior motive in seeking your friendship. You have possibly seen no signs of that so far, but it would have been plain enough later."

"I don't believe it."

"Hush, dear. Your impertinence disconcerts me. I am trying to view the matter from the standpoint of pure thought, and how am I to do that if you keep on rudely interrupting me and dragging me down into the surge of human annoyance? You must take it from those older and more experienced than yourself that this man's motives in seeking your friendship could not have been disinterested. Besides, even suppose for the sake of argument that they were, don't you think you've been acting most disloyally to your father and me in associating with a man you know we disapprove of?"

"Mother, I've told you I'd no idea who he really was. Why, I thought the other man was Furlonger. Besides, I didn't know you disapproved of him. When all the others were letting fly at him, you said something about his having a beautiful soul and sinning more divinely than many people pray."

There is nothing more irritating to the Magus than to have his early philosophies cast in his teeth by some one with a better memory than his own. Lady Strife descended deep into the surge of human annoyance.

"Really, Antoinette, you are a perfectly exasperating child. All this comes from trying to treat you like a reasonable being. Your father said that what you really need is a good thrashing, and I'm inclined to agree with him now, though I insisted on having you in, and discussing things with you from the standpoint of pure thought. I shan't waste any more time on you—you can go back to your room, and stay there till your father gets an answer to his telegram to your Aunt Margaret."

"Aunt Maggie!"

"Yes," cried Sir Gambier, "you're going to Southsea, to stay with your Aunt Maggie till your confounded school re-opens or the crack of doom falls—whichever happens first. You're too much trouble at home—going about with a face like a plaster saint, while in reality you're traipsing over the country with men."

"Father, I wasn't traipsing. Oh, please don't send me to Aunt Maggie's—I shall die." This was that terrible coercion from outside which so effectually routs the forces of sixteen.

"My dear little girl," said her mother, who had climbed back to her standpoint of pure thought, "I know you will be reasonable now, and—I think I may be quite sure of that too—grateful afterwards. Your father and I are really doing you a great kindness in sending you to your aunt's—here you would never be free from the persecutions of that Furlonger."

"Mother, it wasn't persecutions. I liked it."

"Antoinette, I shall really begin to think you are utterly silly. To put the matter on its lowest, most materialistic footing, don't you realise that in associating with a man like that you are seriously damaging your prospects?"

"My prospects?"

"Yes—your prospects of making a good marriage and doing credit to your family. Come, don't stare at me so blankly. You must realise that you are now approaching—if not actually arrived at—a marriageable age, and that you must do nothing to damage——"

"But, mother, I don't want ever to marry. Really, I don't want to talk about such things. It makes me feel—oh, mother, don't you see it's bad form?"

"What!" shrieked her mother, with extraordinary lung-power for an invalid.

"We think it bad form at school to talk about marriage."

Her parents both stared at her blankly.

"Well, you can just think it good form to talk about it now," said Sir Gambier, feeling for some vague reason that he had said something rather witty.

"Your school must be an extraordinary place," said Lady Strife. "I shall have to write to the principal—now, don't interrupt—I shall certainly write; I won't have such ideas put into your head. You're quite old enough to think seriously of marriage. Why, I'd already had two offers at your age."

Tony looked surprised. She was very fond of her mother, but always wondered how she had ever managed to get married at all, and that she should have had more than one chance seemed positively miraculous.

Lady Strife saw the surprised look, and spoke more sharply.

"Really, Antoinette, you're no more than a great baby. You need education in the most ordinary matters. I'll write to your Aunt Margaret, and ask her to get some eligible men to meet you. Now don't cry."

Tony was actually crying. She was generally as chary and ashamed of tears as a boy.

"I—I can't help it. Oh, mother, don't send me to Aunt Maggie's. Oh, don't make her ask el-el-eligible m-men."

"Don't be a blithering idiot!" shouted Sir Gambier. "If you can't control yourself, go upstairs and begin packing at once."

Tony went out, crying into a handkerchief stained with blackberry juice. Her demoralisation was complete.

Awdrey, who had been lurking uneasily in the dining-room, came out as the boudoir door opened and slammed, and for a moment stood horrified at the sight of her sister.

"Hullo, Tony! Whenever did I last see you cry? What's the matter, old girl?"

"M-Mother thinks I'm old enough to-to b-be married."

"To whom?" shrieked Awdrey, all agog at once.

"Nobody—only some el-eligible men at—at Aunt Maggie's."

"What rot you're talking. Hasn't any one asked you?"

"Of course not."

"Then what on earth's all the row about? It's only natural mother should want you to be married some day."

"But—but I've sworn never to marry."

"Ah," said Awdrey knowingly, as she tramped upstairs beside her sister; then in a gentler voice, "Why can't you marry him?"

"Who's 'him'?"

"Why, the man who made you swear not to marry."

"It wasn't a man—it was a g-girl," and Tony's tears burst out afresh, as she remembered how she and Gladys Gates had sworn to each other never to marry, but always to live together, and had solemnly divided and eaten a lump of sugar in ratification of the covenant.

Awdrey was speechless with disgust, but she went with Tony into her room, because she had not yet found out what she primarily wanted to know.

"You're an extraordinary kid, Tony—I really should call you only half there. You kick up all this ridiculous fuss at the mere mention of marriage, and yet you go about with a man like Furlonger. Oh yes, I know all about it. Father was bawling loud enough for every one this side of the Channel to hear."

"But I tell you I didn't know he was Furlonger. Besides, he didn't want me to marry him. He wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing."

"Oh, no, I'm quite sure of that. But you don't tell me your relations with him were entirely platonic."

"Yes, I do."

"You mean to say he never even kissed you?"

"Kissed me!—of course not!—how dare you, Awdrey!"

"My dear child, you play the injured innocence game very well, but when you make out you don't know what sort of man Furlonger is, you're carrying it a bit too far."

"Of course, I know he's been in prison," and Tony sobbed drily, "but as for kissing me, I'm sure he's not as bad as that."

"Are you trying to be funny?" asked Awdrey sharply.

Tony only sniffed in reply, and her sister's gaze wandered round the windy, austere room, resting on the few photographs of school-girl friends on the mantelpiece.

"I suppose you're in earnest," she said, after a pause, "but really, you're the weirdest thing, even in flappers, I've ever met. Perhaps in time you'll realise that even such a heinous crime as a kiss is a degree better than robbing a few score poor widows of their savings."

Tony stopped crying suddenly, and a quiver passed through her. The expression of her eyes changed.

"Awdrey—I—I think I'd like to be—alone—to do my packing."

Half-an-hour later Tony's boxes were still empty, except for a foundation layer of the school-girl photographs. The bed and chairs were littered with underclothing, shoes, hats, books and frocks. Tony sat on the floor, staring miserably in front of her with tear-blind eyes that did not notice the surrounding confusion, so intent were they on the litter of a broken dream. Her dream, once so joyful, fresh and iridescent, was now a mere jumble of shards. She had defended Furlonger against her parents and her sister, but it had been the last effort of which her bleeding heart was capable. Her hero and his epic had now broken up into a terrible shatter of disillusion, to which her mother and Awdrey had added the most humiliating dust. She could not think which was worse—the motives of self-interest attributed by the one, or the love-motives attributed by the other. And though she denied both, at the bottom of her heart was a far worse accusation. Her stainless champion was a criminal, a false swearer, a defrauder of the helpless, a devourer of widows' houses. He had not sinned against her in the way her family imagined, but in a far more horrible, subtle way ... she shuddered, sickened and shrank.

All the same she was glad that when others accused him she had taken his part.