Sally rushed down to meet him, and she took him off for a walk in the garden.

“What a time it is since we have seen you. What have you been doing—amusing yourself a great deal, I suppose?”

“I have been the whole time in Paris. I have been studying very hard. I only returned home about two months ago.”

“I don't believe about the studying.”

“I have been working at my painting. I worked morning and afternoon in the studio from the nude. Last summer I had a delightful time. I took a little place on the Seine—a little house near Bas Meudon. I had a garden; I used to breakfast every morning in the garden—fresh eggs, new bread, an omelette, such as only a Frenchwoman can make, a cutlet, or a piece of chicken. The wine, too, so fresh and generous. I don't know how it is, but Burgundy here is not the same as Burgundy on the banks of the Seine. I worked all day in my garden, or down by the river. I was painting a large picture. I haven't finished it yet. I must go back there in the summer to finish it.”

“Why can't you finish it here? Haven't you got it here?”

“Yes, but the Seine is not here.”

“Wouldn't the Adour do? The river at Shoreham?”

“No; but the Thames might. My picture is really more English than French. There were a lot of willow trees there, and my picture represents a girl lying in a hammock, foot hanging over, showing such a pretty piece of black stocking. There are two men there, they are both swinging the hammock, but while one is looking at her ankle the other only sees her face.”

Sally laughed coarsely and evasively.

“What are you laughing at?” he asked, feeling a little nettled.

“Don't you think people will think it rather improper?”

“Not at all. Why should they? The idea I wish to convey is that one man loves her truly for herself alone, the other only loves her because she is a pretty girl. I have composed some triolets for the picture, which will be printed in the catalogue—

“That is the first stanza. There are six, and they tell the story of the picture. I will copy them into your album, if you like.”

“Will you? That will be so nice, if you will. The only thing is, I haven't an album.”

“Haven't you? I'll get you one. I'll send you one from London.”

Sally asked him to explain the triolets, and very loyally she strove to understand.

“Ah, I see a thing when I am told, but I never can understand poetry or pictures until they are explained to me.”

Mollified, Frank thought of going upstairs to fetch the copy book in which he wrote such things, but speaking out of an unperceived association of ideas, he said: “What a clever girl your sister is. I had once a long talk with her about pictures and poetry, and I was surprised to find how well she talked. She understands everything.”

“Maggie is a clever girl; I know she is far cleverer than I am; but if you knew her as well as I do, you would find she did not understand all you think she understands.”

“How do you mean?”

“Maggie's cleverness lies in being able to pretend she understands what she knows nothing about; I have often caught her out.”

“Really; but how do you get on together now?”

“Pretty well! I don't think there is much love lost on either side. I don't know why—I never could understand Maggie. You have no idea of the reports she spreads about me all over the place—the stories she tells the Grahams, the Prestons, the Wells. She told Mrs. Wells that I fell in love with every young man that came to Southwick. She said awful things about me. As for that story about telling cook to put father's dinner back, I don't think I ever shall hear the last of it. What made father so angry was because he thought it was to talk to Jimmy in the slonk.”

“You told me the last time I was here that you wanted to finish a conversation with him in the slonk.”

“I may have told you that it was to speak to him about his sister Fanny,” Sally replied evasively. “I would not care if I never saw him again; but I couldn't get on if I weren't allowed to see Fanny. Father wanted me to promise never to enter the house again!”

“But you have flirted with him?”

“I don't know that I have; certainly not more than Maggie. Last summer she was hanging round his neck every evening under the sycamores. I caught them twice.”

“I don't see any harm in going under the sycamores. I daresay Maggie has allowed him to kiss her; so have you!”

“That I assure you I haven't.”

“You mean to say a man never kissed you?”

“I didn't say that. I haven't kissed any one for years.”

“Who did kiss you?”

“You don't know him. I was only eighteen. He was a married man; it was very wrong of me.”

“I wish I had been he.”

“Do you? I hate him; he was a beast for doing it.”

Sally often indulged in these half confessions; one of her aunts used to call them her “side lights.” By their aid she succeeded in interesting Frank. “How candid she is to tell me—to confide in me!” Sally was handsome now; the evening suited her dark skin and coal black eyes, and her strong figure was rich and not ungraceful in a dress of ruby velvet. Should he kiss her? What would she say? He threwhis arm about her.

“I am surprised. Certainly not!”

“I don't see any harm.” Then, with a sensation of saying something foolish, he said: “You told me you kissed a married man.”

“That was ages ago—I was very silly. I shouldn't think of doing sonow.”

In the silence which followed Frank wondered why he had tried to kiss her. Decidedly he liked the other better.

Now every evening Maggie went to the writing-table, and all knew what it meant. Mr. Brookes occasionally lamented in a minor key, but without having recourse to his handkerchief. Willy said nothing; his losses on the Stock Exchange had been heavy; and owing to a conversation Frank had drawn him into during dinner the other day, his digestion, he feared, was not quite up to the mark. So on the night of the ball he only answered with an occasional monosyllable the splendid young man of the embroidered waistcoats who related his pleasures in a deep bass; nor did he pretend to take any interest in the crude militia officer who sometimes broke the silence by a declaration that he did not care for politics or poetry, that he liked history better. The young ladies listened devoutly to all that the young men said; Mr. Brookes carved valiantly at the head of the table and appeared resigned. Bouquets were fixed in button-holes in the billiard-room and the 'bus was announced. A greasy oil-lamp hung from the roof. Sometimes Sally rubbed the windows and said she could tell by the bushes where they were, and the embroidered waistcoat continued to drone out the measure of his amusements. He would have to run up to London, then he must have a shy at trente et quarante at Monte Carlo, then he must get back for the spring meeting at Newmarket. Frank asked him if he didn't think he could manage to amuse himself without talking it all out beforehand. But undaunted and unchecked he wandered from Homburg to Paris, and from Paris to Ross-shire, until the 'bus drew up among a small crowd of people.

The ball was a failure. When they entered the rooms there were scarcely twenty people present. It was very cold, and the men said; “How can the women bear it with their naked shoulders?”

“We shall never get near this fire,” said Sally, looking in dismay on the circle of damsels who stood warming themselves, their dresses relieved upon the masses of laurel with which the room was decorated; “there is a beautiful fire in one of those little rooms at the end.”

“Very well, let us come and sit there; or shall we dance this waltz first?”

“Let's dance it.”

They danced, and Frank shuddered in his evening clothes as he danced.

“Did you notice,” said Sally, as they hurried to the retiring room, “how upset father seemed at dinner? I thought he was going to cry, but he bore up to the end better than I expected.”

“So he did, but I don't see what there was particularly to upset him this time. Meason is away at sea, and you have promised not to see him any more.”

“Oh, I wasn't thinking about the Measons—but haven't you heard? I only heard it through a friend, but I know for a fact that Willy has lost nearly all his money on the Stock Exchange.”

“You don't say so; I am so sorry.”

“Father hasn't heard it all yet; if he had he wouldn't have come down to dinner. I don't fancy he knows more than that things have not been going well, and that Willy has been a loser.”

“But how can he have lost? I thought he was junior partner in an old established business.”

“So he is. I can't tell you how the mischief was done, but I know he has lost all his money.”

“What do you mean by all his money?”

“All the money—three thousand—that father let him draw out of the distillery.”

“This is very sad.”

“Yes, isn't it? And particularly for a fellow who has so few amusements, and only cares about making money. Just look at him now; he wanders about speaking to no one. Come, let's dance this dance—are you engaged?”

“No!”

This news about Willy fixed the Harfield ball in Frank's thoughts, and he remembered the pretty girl in white of whom he could make nothing, of the raw just-brought-out girl who had bored him, of the communicative girl who had amused him by her accounts of her dogs and horses; he remembered, too, how he had seen Maggie disappearing down the ends of certain passages with a young man whose name he did not catch, and whose face he had not noticed. He had danced twice with her, only twice; she was distracted, she did not look at him, her eyes wandered all over the room, she answered his questions indifferently. Sally, on the contrary, had devoted herself to him, and on several occasions he thought that her blunt straightforward manner was better than the other's slyness. The 'bus came with its draughts, its sickly lamp and its doleful jolting. Sally was too tired to rub the windows and declare how far they were from home, and the dancers endured their discomforts almost in silence; even the embroidered waistcoat occasionally ceased to talk about Homburg; and in all the extreme bitterness and greyness of a March morning they pulled up before the door of the Manor House.

“I beg of you not to make a noise. If you wake up father he will never let us go to a ball again. Is there a fire in the billiard-room, Gardner?”

“Yes, miss, there's a lovely fire; the decanters are on the table and the kettle is on the hob.”

“I think you would all like a glass of something hot,” said Maggie.

“Rather!”

“But don't make a noise, please.”

They stole along the passages to the billiard-room shivering, their feet aching, feeling very uncomfortable indeed. The waistcoat was now considering if it would be good form to come forward in the Conservative interest at the next election; but every one was too tired, they could not laugh, and amid a few general remarks the young ladies drank their gin and water, casting sheep's eyes at the young men, and then, glad and yet loth to part, all retired limping to their rooms.

Breakfast was a pleasant meal—full of laughter and anecdotes of the ball, and, laden with Gladstone bags, the young men departed in ones and twos. Frank was going with Willy to London, and when they disappeared among the laurels Sally and Maggie turned indoors, conscious of reaction, and wondering what they should do with the long day that stretched before them. Maggie walked upstairs; she lingered, undecided, and then went down the passage to Frank's room. He had forgotten a shirt stud; on the chest of drawers there was a crumpled white tie and a soiled pair of white gloves. “How careless he is!” she thought, “I must send him this,” and she put the stud in her pocket. She straightened out the gloves and determined to send the necktie to the wash. Next time he came down she would have it to give him, nice, clean, and white—she must see that it was beautifully made up. Then she found his ball programme. He had danced four times with Sally—only twice with her—what a fool she had been; she had wasted her whole evening with that other fellow. It did make her feel so angry. Then the housemaid entered and turned the bed down.

“What a lot of washing there will be this week, Gardner.”

“There will indeed, miss. Three pairs of sheets, and only slept in once.”

“Yes, isn't it a pity? It seems absurd to send these sheets to the wash, doesn't it?”

“It do, indeed, miss.”

“Absurd!” said Sally, who had just come in. “I want a pair of fresh sheets for my bed. I'll have these.”

“No you won't—I was going to take them.”

“I should like to know what right you have to them more than I.”

“You promised not to interfere with me, and you have done nothing else. You did nothing at the ball but ask him for dances.”

“That's a lie! I didn't ask him for a dance. You went off to hide; no one saw anything of you all the evening.”

“You mean to say you didn't promise?”

“I never promised anything; if I did I should keep my promise. I am not like you. I want a pair of sheets, and I mean to have these.”

“They are too big for your bed.”

Sally seized the sheet and strove to drag it from Maggie, who, although the weaker, held her own bravely for some time. Finding her strength failing her, she loosed her hold, letting her sister fall against the wall, and taking up the pillow she launched it with her full force. “If you want what he slept in, you can have it all.”

“I'll give it to you, my lady,” cried the bully, making a rush round the bed, but Maggie fled through the dressing-room, shutting the door behind her, and locked herself into her room.

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