Alix yawned, disappearing in the direction of the sitting room,
where he found her a few minutes later absorbed in a book.

The evening was cooler, with sudden wind and a promise of storm.
They grouped themselves about a fire in the old way; Anne and
Justin sitting close together on the settle, as Martin and Cherry
had done a year ago. Cherry sat next her father with her hand
linked in his; neither hand moved for a long, long time. Alix,
sitting on the floor, with her lean cheeks painted by the fire,
played with the dog and rallied Peter about some love affair, the
details of which made him laugh vexedly in spite of himself.
Cherry watched them, a little puzzled at the familiarity of Peter
beside this fire; had he been so entirely one of the family a year
ago? She could almost envy him, feeling herself removed by so long
and strange a twelvemonth.

"Be that as it may, my dear," said Alix, "the fact remains that
you taught this Fenton woman to drive your car, didn't you? And
you told her that she was the best woman driver you ever knew, a
better driver even than Miss Strickland; didn't you?"

"I did not," Peter said, unmovedly smoking and watching the fire.

"Why, Peter, you did! She said you did!"

"Well, then, she said what is not true!"

"She distinctly told me," Alix remarked, "that dear Mr. Joyce had
said that she was the best woman driver he ever saw."