one coming to stay with them. Won't he
have a deadly time?" Isabel glanced from Val to Rowsley in the
certainty of a common response. "Imagine staying at Wanhope!
However, he invited himself, so it's at his own risk. Perhaps
he's embarrassed like you, Rose, and wants Laura to feed him.
It's rather fun for Laura, though--that is, it will be, if Major
Clowes isn't too hopeless."

Strange freemasonry of the generations! Mr. Stafford's children
loved him dearly and he was wont to say that there were no
secrets at the vicarage, yet they lived in a conspiracy of
silence, and even Val, who was mentally nearer to his father's
age, would have been loth to let Mr. Stafford know as much as
Isabel knew about Wanhope. It was assumed that Val's job was the
very job Val wanted. Mr. Stafford had indeed a suspicion that it
was not all plain sailing: Bernard Clowes retained just so much
of the decently bred man as to be courteous to his wife before a
mere acquaintance, but the vicar came and went at odd hours, and
he observed now and then vague intimations--undertones from
Bernard himself, an uncontrollable shrinking on Laura's part, an
occasional hesitation or reluctance in Val--which hinted at
flying storms. But Val, the father supposed, could make
allowance for a cripple: Bernard was so much to be pitied that no
man would resent an occasional burst of temper! And there his
children left him. The younger generation can trust one another
not to interfere, but when the seniors strike in, with their cut
and dry precedents and rule of thumb moralities, who knows what
mischief may follow? Elder people are so indiscreet!

"It's a cousin of Major Clowes," Isabel continued, "but they
haven't met for years and years--not since the war. Laura knows
him too, she met him before she was married and liked him very
much indeed. She's looking forward to it--that is, she would be
if she had spirit enough to look forward to anything."

"Clowes never said a word to me about it," remarked Val.

"Didn't he?" Isabel unfolded herself and stood up. "That means he
is going to be tiresome. I must run now, it's five past nine.
Which will you both have, cold beef or eggs?"

"Oh, anything that's going," said Val.

"Eggs," said Rowsley, "not less than four. Without prejudice to
the cold beef if it's underdone. Hallo!"

"What?"

"What's the matter with your skirt?"

"Nothing," said Isabel shortly. She screwed her head over her
shoulder