e
resolved outside Borhedden Farm, so now she swore that she would owe
nothing to any man.

If she should love Martin Warlock it would not be for anything that she
expected to get from him, but only for the love that she had it in her
to give. If good came of it, well, if not, she was still her own master.

But more than ever now was it impossible to be open with her aunts. How
strange it was that from the very beginning there had been concealments
between Aunt Anne and herself. Perhaps if they had been open to one
another at the first all would have been well. Now it was too late.

Tea came in, and, with tea, Aunt Anne. It was the first time that day
that Maggie had seen her, and now, conscious of the news that Martin
had given her, she felt a movement of sympathy, of pity and affection.
Aunt Anne had been in her room all day, and she seemed as she walked
slowly to the fire to be of a finer pallor, a more slender body than
ever. Maggie felt as though she could see the firelight through her
body, and with that came also the conviction that Aunt Anne knew
everything, knew about Martin and the posted letter and the thoughts of
escape. Maggie herself was tired with the trial of her waiting day, she
was exhausted and was beating, with all her resolve, against a
disappointment that hammered with a thundering noise, somewhere far
away in the recesses of her soul. So they all drew around the fire and
had their tea.

Aunt Anne, leaning back in her chair, her beautiful hands stretched out
on the arms, a fine white shawl spread on her knees, asked Maggie about
last night.

"I hope you enjoyed yourself, dear." "Very much, Aunt Anne. Uncle
Mathew was very kind."

"What did you do?"

Maggie flushed. It was deceit and lies now all the time, and oh! how
she hated lies! But she went on:

"Do you know, Aunt Anne, I think Uncle Mathew is so changed. He's
younger and everything. He talked quite differently last night, about
his business and all that he's doing. He's got his money in malt now,
he says."

"Whose money?" asked Aunt Anne.

"His own, he says. I never knew he had any. But he says yes, it's in
malt. It's not a nice hotel, though, where he lives."

"Not nice, dear?"

"No, I didn't like it. But it's only for men really of course."

"I think he'd better take you somewhere else next time. I'll speak to
him. By the way, Maggie dear, Martha tells me you went out yesterday
afternoon all alone--into the Strand. I think