the past; a hundred times he blamed
himself for the part he had chosen. It is true that, so far as he could
see, none other would have had the smallest chance of leading him to his
desired goal, yet any other could not have raised the enormous barrier he
now saw before him.

He had angered her: she despised him.

To his mind nothing, no subsequent happening, could alter that fact.
There was the thought he had to face, and behind him lay his own
irredeemable blunder.

Well, the only thing now left for him was to live his life as it was,
minus one spark of brightness. Certainly he didn't feel like singing, but
whining was no earthly good. And since he could not sing, and would not
whine, silence alone was left him. He would work as best he could till
the year was out. He had no intention of going back on his bargain,
despite the uselessness of it. At the end of the year, the Hall being his
own property, he would sell the place, and travel. Perhaps he would go
off shooting big game, or perhaps he would go round the world. It did not
much matter which, so long as it prevented him from whining.

And quite possibly, though he would never have any heart for singing, the
day might come when he would again be able to whistle.

CHAPTER XXIX

IN THE CHURCH PORCH

It was somewhere about the second week in December that Trix became the
recipient of another letter, a letter quite as amazing, perplexing, and
extraordinary as that which she had perused in the summer-house at
Llandrindod Wells. They had returned to London in October.

The letter was brought to her in the drawing-room one evening about nine
o'clock. Mrs. Arbuthnot had gone out to a Bridge party.

Trix was engrossed in a rather exciting novel at the moment, a blazing
fire and an exceedingly comfortable armchair adding to her blissful state
of well-being. Barely raising her eyes from the book, she merely put out
her hand and took the letter from the tray. It was not till she had come
to the end of the chapter that she even glanced at the handwriting. Then
she saw that the writing was Miss Tibbutt's.

Now, a letter from Miss Tibbutt was of such extremely rare occurrence
that Trix immediately leapt to the conclusion that Pia must be ill. It
was therefore with a distinct pang of uneasiness that she broke the seal.
This is what she read:

"My Dear Trix,--

"I have made rather an astounding discovery. At least I feel sure I've
made it, I mean that I am