It was Flora who drove the round, short legged pony, who drew the dog cart, and because Flora had driven a high power car in France during the war and had earned a reputation as a merchant of speed she looked, as she was given to look on these occasions, a shade sorry for herself.

Also, because she had an admiration for Anthony that was little removed from adoration she did not attend greatly to the business in hand, but instead engaged in a critical survey of the girl he was to marry. She decided that Isabel was very pretty but a shade too serious. She wondered if her nerves were any good. She wished she had been allowed to fetch her in the motor as there were one or two sharp corners on the way home which, taken fast, provided a good test of a passenger's courage. Perhaps it was as well that permission had been denied, she reflected, since had Isabel screamed or turned even the least bit pink she, Flora, would certainly have hit her with a spanner.

In extenuation for these violent emotions please remember that Flora, in company with Jane, had been instrumental in saving Anthony Barraclough's life when they found him lying on the roadside bleeding like a stuck pig during the great retreat of 1918. After all, a girl is justified in feeling strongly about a man's choice of a wife when he owes his life to her. She is more or less responsible.

Isabel said nothing for perhaps a quarter of a mile, then suddenly exclaimed:

"I say, this is beastly slow."

She could not have made a happier remark. Flora relaxed instantly.

"Isn't it chronic," she returned, "but the old lady was firm about it.
If I'd had the car we'd have whooped it up a bit."

"Wish we had. Can't stick this jogging—want to get out and run."

"Fond of speed?" said Flora.

"Um, rather. That beastly old train—then this. I'd half a notion to fly down only I didn't know any landings round here."

"You've flown then?"

"Yes, lots."

"Who with?"

"By myself a fair amount."

"Got a pilot certificate?"

"Yes, ages ago."

"I say!" said Flora and began to feel quite hopeful about Anthony's future. "Agnes was in the Flying Corps, you know."

"Agnes?"

"She's housemaid. 'Course she's been up dozens of times but she never handled the joystick. Ever looped?"

"Often."

"You must talk to Agnes," said Flora.

There was a bell under the pony's chin strap and it jingled continually. From her chair by the open French window Mrs. Barraclough could hear the jingle as the cart turned into the lane. Herein lay the essence of using the cart for particular friends, for Mrs. Barraclough knew that as soon as she heard that sound there would be just time to walk down the garden path and be at the gate to welcome the arrival. With the car one could never get there soon enough and to her way of thinking the hospitality of a house should be offered at the entrance to its grounds. She liked to stand under the arboured gate with extended hands and from there to speak the first welcoming words and then to link arms and lead the visitor indoors with promises of tea or fires in bedrooms and little kindly appreciations of the fatigue of travelling. She would as soon have omitted any of these gentle rites as have neglected to satisfy herself that the sheets were properly aired or the carpets swept beneath the beds.

Of course, with Isabel the welcome extended beyond the mere taking of hands. There is a proper way of embracing your son's affianced wife; that is, of course, if you happen to be of the same period as Mrs. Barraclough. A kiss on the forehead, one on each cheek, an examination at arm's length, and finally, after a perfect duck of a shared smile and a murmured "my dear," the gentlest kiss imaginable on the extreme point of the chin. It is at once a tribute and an acceptance—the cashier's neat initial that honours your signature to a cheque drawn on the account of happiness.

Alas, that some of our modern mothers have lost the knack of this pretty exchange. Their greeting is of a harsher tone. They bridge the separating gulf between youth and age with talk of Auction. They speak to the girl of "making a four" after dinner when the only real concern is that she should make a two that is spiritually one. And because this is so the modern mother will remain more often "in-law" than in heart, which is a very great pity indeed.

They had never met before but Isabel knew at the first touch of those sweet prim lips that Anthony's mother was also hers—was also a darling—was also a trump—was also every kind of good thing that she ought to be.

"Oh, I'm so glad I came," she gasped. "It won't be half so bad with you to help me wait."

And Mrs. Barraclough, who hadn't the smallest idea what she was talking about, nodded and replied:

"Of course not, my dear, of course not."

Inside the drawing room tea was waiting on a silver tray, with a silver kettle throwing out a hiss of silver steam. Never had Isabel seen any silver that was as bright as this. It shone with the innocent lustre of wedding presents and even the little methylated spirit flame that boiled the water looked as if it had been polished with a chamois leather.

There was a walnut tea caddy studded with brass that had to be unlocked, and inside were two compartments with tin-foil linings in which the precious leaves guarded their aroma and defied larceny. Mrs. Barraclough took two spoonfuls from one side and one from the other that the correct blend might be achieved and these she mixed upon a tiny square of white cartridge paper. Then the cups were warmed and the water was put in—and some muffins and Jane, who had apple cheeks and smiling red lips, came in the room and the business of pouring out began, which is almost as great and almost as lost a secret as the varnish of the violin makers of Cremona. And Isabel felt good all over because she knew that Mrs. Barraclough, and the room, and Jane, and the muffins, and the tea, and the evening were all the right temperature—warm—mellow—comforting. Outside the window was a thrush who sang. He was a soloist, and when he stayed to fill his throat a chorus of sparrows, close packed upon the upper branches of a tilting cedar, chirped gladly with a single voice.

And listening and tasting and feeling all the sweetness of the countryside, the fairness of tradition, the delicacy of age and custom, a lump came into Isabel's throat—hot, angry and convulsive. For somewhere out beyond was her man—facing unknown dangers, taking terrible risks, followed by relentless men.

Yet all this was his and he had left it. She was his and he had left her—deserting both at the bidding of that frightful master who commands us all—that ruler of men's destinies whose initials are L.S.D. [Transcriber's note: abbreviations for Pounds, shillings, pence.]

She put her tea cup on the tray with a little tinkle and suddenly covered her eyes with the palms of her hands.

"Oh, oh, oh!" she cried. "Why couldn't he have been satisfied?"

"What is it, my dear?"

"Money," she answered with a staggering breath. "Money. And it couldn't buy a moment that was as sweet as this."

The fair curly head tilted forward into the black silk lap. Mrs. Barraclough's hands went round the girl's shoulders and held them tight. They were shaking so.

A clergyman passing down the road halted for a moment and peered over the yew hedge into the open windows of the room. But nobody took any notice of him and he couldn't hear the words that were spoken. Had he heard he would not have understood for they were only the kind noises with which one woman will comfort another.

Mrs. Barraclough could almost feel the hot tears soak through the fabric of her gown.