"I've come to inquire," he said laughing, "the family pew held me in
solitary state this morning. Time was when I never minded, but this last
year has spoiled me. I was booked for lunch but I came as soon as I
could. Nobody ill, I hope?"

Miss Craven looked at him for a moment before answering as he stood with
his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him, his face ruddy with
the wind and rain, his keen blue eyes on hers, reliable, unchanging. It
was a curious chance that had brought him--just at that moment. The
temptation to make an unusual confidence rose strongly. She had known
him and trusted him for more years than she cared to remember. How much
to say? Indecision held her.

"You are always thoughtful, Peter," she temporised. "I am afraid there
is no excuse," with a little smile; "Barry rode off somewhere quite
early this morning and Gillian went yesterday to the Horringfords. I
expect her back to-day in time for tea. For myself, I had gout or
rheumatism or the black dog on my back, I forget which! Anyhow, I stayed
at home." She laughed and pointed to the cigarettes. He took one,
tapping it on his thumbnail.

"You were alone. Why didn't you 'phone? I should have been glad to
escape the Australians. They are enormously kind, but somewhat--er--
overwhelming," he added with a quick laugh.

"My dear man, be thankful I never thought of it. I've been like a bear
with a sore head all day." She looked past him into the fire, and struck
by a new note in her voice he refrained from comment, smoking slowly and
luxuriating in the warmth after a cold wet drive in an open motor. He
never used a closed car. But some words she had used struck him. "Barry