Miss Craven snorted. "Content!" she said scornfully. "Marriage
should bring more than contentment. It's a meagre basis on which
to found a life partnership."

A shadow flitted across the girl's face.

"I had a friend who married for love," she said slowly. "She
belonged to the old noblesse, and her family wished her to make
a great marriage. But she loved an artist and married him in spite
of all opposition. For six months she was the happiest girl in
France--then she found out that her husband was unfaithful.
Does it shock you that I speak of it--we all knew in the convent.
She went to Capri soon afterwards, to a villa her father had given
her, and one morning she went out to swim--it was a daily habit,
she could do anything in the water. But that morning she swam out
to sea--and she did not come back." The low voice sank almost to
a whisper. Miss Craven looked up incredulously. "Do you mean
she deliberately drowned herself?" Gillian made a little gesture of
evasion. "She was very unhappy," she said softly. And in the silence
that followed her troubled gaze turned almost unconsciously to
her guardian. He had risen and was standing with his hands in his
pockets staring straight in front of him, rigidly still. His attitude
suggested complete detachment from those about him, as if his
spirit was ranging far afield leaving the big frame empty, impenetrable
as a figure of stone. She was sensitive to his lack of interest. She
regretted having expressed opinions that she feared were immature
and valueless. A quick sigh escaped her, and Miss Craven,
misunderstanding, patted her shoulder gently. "It's a very sad little
story, my dear."