ow that up by having a single with Lord
Lindfield--an odd programme for a woman who was so fatigued that she was
going to slip away and go to bed as soon as possible.

Then, almost without pause, Daisy pulled herself together again, banging
the door of her mind, so to speak, on that unpleasant thought, and
refusing to give it entrance or to hold parley with it. There were fifty
explanations, if explanations were required, but for a loyal friend
they were not, and Daisy refused to think more of the matter. But all
the time some small prying denizen of her subconscious mind was
wondering what these explanations could possibly be.

This unpleasant little moment, though she had dealt with it as loyally
and speedily as she could, had rather spoilt the moonlight saunter--or,
at any rate, Daisy was afraid of other similar intrusions, and she went
back to the house. There she found the whole party engaged, for the
bridge tables had been made up, one in the far end of the billiard-room,
one out on the verandah, while the remaining three were still at their
pool. Without more than half-conscious intention, Daisy strolled on
round the house, meaning to look in at the billiard-room.

She had meant to go into the room in the natural, ordinary way, entering
by the long French window, which gave on to the path, and would be sure
on this warm evening to be open. But she did not do that, and instead,
paused opposite the window, but at some little distance from it, so that
she herself was probably invisible to eyes looking from that bright
light inside into the dusk in which she stood. She wanted, in fact, to
see what was going on without being seen. She saw.

Aunt Jeannie and Lord Lindfield were standing together by the
marking-board, talking about some point which might or might not have
been connected with billiards. The pool apparently was over, for Victor
Braithwaite had put down his cue and had strolled over to the bridge
table. And at that moment Jeannie raised her hand and laid it, just for
a second, on the sleeve of Lindfield's shirt, for he was coatless. The
action was infinitesimal and momentary, but it looked rather intimate.

And then poor Daisy had once more to take herself in hand. Whatever
polite name might be found for her present occupation (you could call it
strolling in the garden or looking at the moon, if you chose), there
was a very straightforward and not very polite name that could be found
for it, and that w