Her mind seemed to be
wondering, wrestling perhaps with some problem, of which Constance knew
nothing, and so it was.

"What shall I do? Shall I send this man the money he demands, or shall I
refuse? And if I refuse, what then?"

She knew that mud sticks, and she dreaded it, feared it. A threat of
bodily pain she could have borne with a smile of equanimity, but this
was different. She was so sensitive, so fine, so delicate, that the
thought of scandal, of lies that might besmirch her, filled her with
fear and shame and dread. It was weak perhaps, it was perhaps not in
accord with her high courage, and yet frankly she was afraid.

"I shall send the money." She came to the decision suddenly. Connie was
speaking to her, about her brother, Joan believed, yet was not certain.
Her thoughts were far away with Slotman and his letter and his demand.

"I shall send the money." And having made up her mind, she felt instant
relief. Yes, cowardly it might be, yet would it not be wiser to silence
the man, to pay him this money that she might have peace, that scandal
and shame might not touch her?

"I wanted him to come with us this afternoon, but he could not. It is
the hops!" Connie sighed. "You don't know what a constant dread and
worry hops can be, Joan. There is always the spraying. Johnny is
spraying hard now. Of course we are not rich, and a really bad hop
season is a serious thing."

"Of course!" Joan said. Yes, she would send the money. She would send
the man a cheque this very day, as soon as the visitors were gone.

"I think she is worried about something," Connie thought. "It cannot be
that she and Johnny have had a disagreement, yet for the last week he
has been worried, different--so silent, so quiet, so unlike himself. I
wonder--?"

She had brought the dark-eyed slip of a girl with her to-day, and from a
distance Ellice sat watching the girl whom she told herself she
hated--this girl who had in some strange way affected and bewitched
Johnny, Johnny who belonged to her, Johnny whom she loved with a
passionate devotion only she herself could know the depth of. How she
hated her, she thought, as she sat watching the calm, beautiful,
thoughtful face, with its strange, dreamy, far-away look in the big grey
eyes.

She realised her beauty; she could not blind herself to it. She felt she
must admire it because it was so apparent, so glowing, so obtrusive; and
because she did admire it, she felt that she hated the ow