s
offered, but which is commended to the sympathy of the wives of golfing
bridegrooms!

Sometimes Cassandra disappeared for long walks on her own account, and
Grizel realised that she went forth to wrestle in solitude for a
medicine of which her soul was in need. She was a restless Cassandra in
these days, sometimes moody, often irritable, and anon almost
obtrusively gay. For all their intimacy Grizel had a consciousness of
being kept at a mental distance, or whenever their talks together took a
deeper turn, Cassandra was ready with a laugh or jest to switch it back
into light impersonality. So does a man with a maimed limb
instinctively shield it from touch. Thus the first fortnight passed by,
and brought the day when Dane Peignton was due to make his appearance.

He arrived at tea-time, looking tired and pale beside the tanned
golfers, who had shortened their day in his honour, and were not above
letting him realise their generosity. They were too pleasantly engaged
describing the crack strokes of the day, to allow the new-comer much
chance of speaking, but he had an air of abundant content as he drank
his tea, vouchsafed appreciative murmurs of admiration, and took in the
charming details of the scene. Grizel, as hostess _ex officio_,
presided at the tea table. The two women had discussed the question of
housekeeping during the joint month's tenancy. Who should be the
nominal head? Who should give orders? To whom should the servants
apply? Since to possess two mistresses was anathema to everything in
cap and apron, it was evident one must sacrifice herself for the common
good. "It had better be me, then," Grizel said, shrugging, "for I
shan't worry, and you will!" and Cassandra shrugged in her turn, and
added, "Also if things go wrong, Bernard won't growl at you." And so
the matter was arranged.

Cassandra's swing chair was drawn close enough to the rails of the
verandah to allow the rays of the sun to touch her hair as she tilted
gently to and fro, and give an added lustre to the points of gold in the
thick, wreath-like braid. She wore a white dress, which to masculine
eyes appeared the acme of simplicity, and Peignton, watching her,
believed that the style of coiffure and dress alike was the outward
proof of inward simpleness of heart, and lack of feminine vanity.
Wherein he was mistaken. After the first greeting he had never directly
addressed himself to Cassandra, but his eyes wandered continual