pleasant work, for Lady Susan--a measure of play, sunshine, the keen joy of
beautiful surroundings--these things had made up six months of a strangely
tranquil existence.

And now, as she sat communing with herself, she was conscious of a queer
foreboding that this unruffled period of her life had run its course and
was drawing to an end. Almost, it seemed to her, she could hear a low
rustle amongst the winds of life--the faint, muttering stir which presages
a storm.

Only once before had she experienced a similar sensation of foreboding, a
few weeks prior to the death of her father and the subsequent discovery
that she and Robin were left practically penniless. She had felt then
as though a definite epoch in her life was approaching its close, and
something new and difficult impending. And, in that instance, her
premonition had been only too accurately fulfilled.

She tried to shake off the odd feeling of presentiment which obsessed her.
But it persisted, and it was a real relief when at last the opening of a
door and the sound of voices in the hall heralded Lady Susan's return.
Unpleasant premonitions and such-like ghostly visitants were prone to melt
away in her cheery, optimistic presence like dew before the sun, and Ann
hastened out of the room to welcome her back.

But at sight of the little group of people in the hall she paused in
dismay. Sir Philip and his chauffeur were supporting Lady Susan on either
side, while Marie, the excitable _femme de chambre_, was wringing her hands
and pouring out a voluble torrent of commiseration.

"Be quiet, Marie!" ordered Lady Susan in her brisk voice. "The end of the