cent Splay rang for tea, just as Joan Whitworth came into the hall.

"You didn't see Colonel Luttrell then?" asked Lady Splay.

"No."

"He'll come down later then." She had an eye for Joan Whitworth as she
spoke, but Joan was so utterly indifferent as to whether Colonel
Luttrell would arrive or not that she could not stifle a sigh. She had
gathered Luttrell into the party with some effort and now it seemed her
effort was to be fruitless. Joan persisted in her mood of austere
contempt for the foibles of the world. She was dressed in a gown of an
indeterminate shade between drab and sage-green, which did its best to
annul her. She had even come to sandals. There they were now sticking
out beneath the abominable gown.

"She can't ruin her complexion," thought Millicent Splay. "That's one
thing. But if she could, she would. Oh, I would love to smack her!"

Joan, quite unaware of Millie Splay's tingling fingers and indignant
eyes, sat reading "Ferishtah's Fancies." Other girls might set their
caps at the soldiers. Joan had got to be different. She had even dallied
with the pacifists. Martin Hillyard had carried away so close a
recollection of her on that afternoon when she had driven him through
the golden sunset over Duncton Hill and of the brave words she had then
spoken that he had to force himself to realise that this was indeed
she.

Millicent Splay had three preoccupations that afternoon but none pressed
upon her with so heavy a load of anxiety as her preoccupation concerning
Joan Whitworth.

Martin crossed the room to Joan and sat upon the couch beside her.

"Didn't I see you in London, Miss Whitworth, on Monday afternoon?" he
asked.

Joan met his gaze steadily.

"Did you? It was possible. I was in London on Monday. Where did you
think you saw me?"

"Coming out of a picture gallery in Green Street."

Joan did not flinch, nor drop her eyes from his.

"Yes, you saw me," she replied. Then with a challenge in her voice she
added distinctly, so that the words reached, as they were meant to
reach, every one in that room. "I was with Mario Escobar."

The room suddenly grew still. Two years ago, Martin Hillyard reflected,
Harold Jupp or Dennis would have chaffed her roundly about her conquest,
and she would have retorted with good humour. Now, no one spoke, but a
little sigh, a little movement of uneasiness came from Millie Splay.
Joan did not take her eyes from Hillyard's face. But the blood mounted
slowly