. She noticed how little flesh there was on
the finely modelled cheeks, how sharp cut was the bridge of the nose.
The girl looked delicate; she was too thin; taken in conjunction with
the tired eyes, that exquisite flush could not be healthy. There was a
motherliness in the good woman's manner which pierced through the crust
of dignity as she put her hand through Cassandra's arm, and said kindly:

"You look tired, dear! I hope you didn't feel cold standing about on
the terrace. It is exposed, and the wind is chill. Are you quite well,
Cassandra?"

"I think so. Why? Don't I look well?" Cassandra felt a relief in the
thought that her depression might be physical. "You know I am always
unhappy at these functions. I am not a good hostess, and it worries me
to know what to say. I'm so thankful I'm not a Vicar's wife! That must
be even worse. Doesn't it bore you to extinction to be everlastingly
two people,--yourself with your nice natural impulses--and the Vicar's
wife who has no business to have impulses at all! Doesn't it bore you
terribly to be always _ex officio_?"

Mrs Evans hesitated. She intensely wanted to say yes, but that highly
trained article, her conscience, would not allow the deception. The
colour deepened on her large, plain face as she said slowly:

"I _did_ find it a trial in early years. Of late the trial has come to
me in another fashion. I am perhaps a little too ready to enjoy the
importance of my position."

Cassandra's laugh rang out with sudden gaiety. She gripped the large
arm, and said with a charming indulgence:

"Ah, but why shouldn't you? If you _do_ manage us, it's for our own
good. It's sweet of you to take the trouble... Mrs Evans, Mary
Mallison has been here to lunch, and I've been talking to her. Her
mother is vastly excited about this windfall, but the girl herself does
not seem capable of anything but relief at the thought of getting away
from home. I'm afraid she's been rather desperately unhappy. It
surprises me that she could suffer so much. I thought she was one of
those dull women who are contented to jog along in any rut in which they
are placed, and never demand anything for themselves."

"Do you think there are any such women, Cassandra?"

"Don't you?"

"I am quite sure there are not."

Cassandra knitted her brows and stared intently into the face of the
woman, who was a virtual father confessor to the parish. If Mrs Evans
were sure, what rig