p of
them had really made her head ache. No wonder her father had hidden
that photograph so secretly behind her own--ashamed of having kept it!
But could he hate Jon's mother and yet keep her photograph? She pressed
her hands over her forehead, trying to see things clearly. Had they
told Jon--had her visit to Robin Hill forced them to tell him?
Everything now turned on that! She knew, they all knew,
except--perhaps--Jon!

She walked up and down, biting her lip and thinking desperately hard.
Jon loved his mother. If they had told him, what would he do? She could
not tell. But if they had not told him, should she not--could she not
get him for herself--get married to him, before he knew? She searched
her memories of Robin Hill. His mother's face so passive--with its dark
eyes and as if powdered hair, its reserve, its smile--baffled her; and
his father's--kindly, sunken, ironic. Instinctively she felt they would
shrink from telling Jon, even now, shrink from hurting him--for of
course it would hurt him awfully to know!

Her aunt must be made not to tell her father that she knew. So long as
neither she herself nor Jon were supposed to know, there was still a
chance--freedom to cover one's tracks, and get what her heart was set
on. But she was almost overwhelmed by her isolation. Every one's hand
was against her--every one's! It was as Jon had said--he and she just
wanted to live and the past was in their way, a past they hadn't shared
in, and didn't understand! Oh! What a shame! And suddenly she thought
of June. Would she help them? For somehow June had left on her the
impression that she would be sympathetic with their love, impatient of
obstacle. Then, instinctively, she thought: 'I won't give anything
away, though, even to her. I daren't! I mean to have Jon; in spite of
them all.'

Soup was brought up to her, and one of Winifred's pet headache cachets.
She swallowed both. Then Winifred herself appeared. Fleur opened her
campaign with the words:

"You know, Auntie, I do wish people wouldn't think I'm in love with
that boy. Why, I've hardly seen him!"

Winifred, though experienced, was not 'fine'. She accepted the remark
with considerable relief. Of course, it was not pleasant for the girl
to hear of the family scandal, and she set herself to minimise the
matter, a task for which she was eminently qualified, raised
fashionably under a comfortable mother and a father whose nerves might
not be shaken, and for many yea