owledge the relationship. The fellow is an
absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard,
and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned
to him at once, took him on as secretary--you know how she's always
running a hundred societies?"

I nodded.

"Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No
doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us
all down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced
that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty
years younger than she is! It's simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but
there you are--she is her own mistress, and she's married him."

"It must be a difficult situation for you all."

"Difficult! It's damnable!"

Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at
Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for
existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes.
John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the
car.

"Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked. "Mainly owing
to the mater's activities."

The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the
little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was
a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex
country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed
almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was
running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another
world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said:

"I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings."

"My dear fellow, that's just what I want."

"Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill
with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife
works regularly 'on the land'. She is up at five every morning to milk,
and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking
it all round--if it weren't for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He
checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. "I wonder if we've
time to pick up Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the hospital by
now."

"Cynthia! That's not your wife?"

"No, Cynthia is a protegee of my mother's, the daughter of an old
schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a
cropper, an