societies?"

I nodded.

"Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands.
No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have
knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she
suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow
must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply
bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are--she is her own
mistress, and she's married him."

"It must be a difficult situation for you all."

"Difficult! It's damnable!"

Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the
train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no
apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green
fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the
platform, and piloted me out to the car.

"Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked.
"Mainly owing to the mater's activities."

The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from
the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of
it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out
over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under
the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that,