were ugly enough, with their stucco
fronts and the steps leading up to their front doors, but they were
respectable and established, and there were trees behind them, and big,
if dingy, shrubs inside their gates.

Walter's house stood at a corner where a new road had been cut through.
This was lined on each side with a row of two-storied villas behind low
wooden palings, of which the owner, in describing them, had taken
liberties with the name of Queen Anne. But Walter's house and the one
adjoining it in the Avenue, though built in the same style, or with the
same lack of it, were much bigger, and had divided between them an old
garden of a quarter of an acre, which, although it would have been
nothing much at Kencote, almost attained to the dignity of "grounds" at
Melbury Park.

There was a red lamp by the front gate, and as they drew up before it,
Muriel came out under a gabled porch draped with Virginia creeper and
hurried to welcome them to her married home.

She looked blooming, as a bride should, even on this hot August day in
London. She wore a frock of light holland, and it looked somehow
different from the frocks of holland or of white drill which Cicely had
idly observed in some numbers as she had driven through the streets and
roads of the suburb. She had a choking sensation as she saw Muriel's
eager face, and her neat dress, just as she might have worn it at home.

"Hullo, Dick," said Muriel. "Walter will be in to lunch. O Cicely, it
_is_ jolly to see you again. But where's your luggage? You've come to
stay. Why, you're looking miserable, my dear! What on earth's the
matter? And what did Mr. Clinton's telegram mean, and Dick's? We haven't
wired yet, but we must."

They had walked up the short garden path, leaving Dick to settle with
the cabman, who had been nerving himself for a tussle, and was surprised
to find it unnecessary.

"I'm in disgrace, Muriel," said Cicely. "I'll tell you all about it when
we are alone, if Dick doesn't first."

Muriel threw a penetrating look at her and then turned to Dick, who
said, with a grin, "This is the drive, is it, Muriel?"

"You are not going to laugh at my house, Dick," said Muriel. "You'll be
quite as comfortable here as anywhere. Come in. This is the hall."

"No, not really?" said Dick. "By Jove!"

It was not much of a hall, the style of Queen Anne as adapted to the
requirements of Melbury Park not being accustomed to effloresce in
halls; but a green Morris