the drawing-room window. There's Mrs. Wilcox--I've seen
her. There's Paul. There's Evie, who is a minx. There's
Charles--I saw him to start with. And who would an elderly
man with a moustache and a copper-coloured face be?"

"Mr. Wilcox, possibly."

"I knew it. And there's Mr. Wilcox."

"It's a shame to call his face copper colour,"
complained Margaret. "He has a remarkably good complexion
for a man of his age."

Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could afford to concede
Mr. Wilcox his complexion. She passed on from it to the
plan of campaign that her nieces should pursue in the
future. Margaret tried to stop her.

"Helen did not take the news quite as I expected, but
the Wilcox nerve is dead in her really, so there's no need
for plans."

"It's as well to be prepared."

"No--it's as well not to be prepared."

"Because--'

Her thought drew being from the obscure borderland. She
could not explain in so many words, but she felt that those