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“Thank you, sir,” the farmer said civilly enough, and, with a nod, Charles passed on his way, wondering whether, after all, it would have been better if he had not spoken. He was not left long in doubt. As he made his way to the door he found his way barred by a furious girl who was beside herself with rage.

“I don’t know,” she said in a clear, contemptuous voice, “what is considered good manners in the place you come from, but here, we don’t like strangers who push their way into other people’s conversations unasked—particularly when they try to make bad blood between us!”

Charles regarded her dispassionately. She
did
need a spanking! And if one was going to talk about manners. . . .

“Listen, my child!” She had spoken with the deliberate intention of allowing other people to hear what she was saying. He spoke so quietly she herself only just heard. “Before you get into an argument, I advise you to make sure of your facts. Better still, since you can’t keep your temper, don’t argue in public at all!”

He saw the sudden puzzled look in her eyes, the slight drop of her jaw, but he had no desire to prolong the conversation and so, stepping to one side, he walked round her obstructive figure and went to see about his lunch.

After the meal was over he went straight out to the yard to get his car. Whether the girl had gone or not, at least he did not encounter her, for which he was thankful. But somewhat to his annoyance he found that he could not forget that striking young face. And even more irritating was the fact that he was blaming himself for having mishandled the situation. And yet—' he had felt compelled to intervene. As if he were responsible for the girl.

He moved his shoulders irritably. Absurd! A lovely child, no doubt, but one who had never been taught either to control her temper or to appreciate the fact that there were certain basic privileges of either sex which could not be disregarded with impunity. He had seen the glances of the other women in the direction of that slim figure. They had resented her claim to equality with their men while they, however willingly, had been outside the group.

Yes, that was it. She wanted to be equal to the men— but she wanted to retain the privileges of a woman as well. He wondered how it came about that there was no older, wiser person to keep her in check. A ticklish job for someone—but not for him, thank heaven!

Before he drove out of the yard he took a letter from his pocket. It was typed, except for the signature, “H, Ravensdale,” and it contained a neat pen-and-ink sketch of his route once he left the town. It was, in fact, evidence that H. Ravensdale had both an orderly mind and the ability to recognise other people’s needs, two attributes which made considerable appeal to Charles.

Without difficulty he found his way to Windygates. A bigger house than he had visualised. Pinkish, as the cathedral had been, but he liked the stone better in this domestic setting. Creepers broke the austerity of its line, and the fluttering curtains at the mullioned windows had a homelike appearance.

Rather to his relief the weather had cleared now, and as he' went through the gates the sun came out.

“A good omen!” he thought, and grinned at himself. He, of all men, was not superstitious, and yet he knew that his spirits rose at the sight of those rather watery beams of light.

He was evidently expected about now, for a trim, middle-aged woman, obviously on the watch for him, stopped weeding a garden bed and stood erect at the sound of the car. Charles jumped out of the car and walked towards her. Quick to make up his mind, he took an instant liking to her. Though her hair was grey, her face was fresh and unlined and her frank smile was very attractive as she took off her gardening glove and held out her hand.

“Mr. Saxilby?” she said pleasantly, and Charles was delighted to discover that her voice was as charming as her face. “I am Miss Ravensdale, with whom you have been in correspondence.”

“Miss
Ravensdale?” he repeated, making no attempt to hide his surprise. “But I was under the impression ”

“That I was a man?” she said quickly. “Oh, dear, I suppose that is because of my signature! Most women sign with their Christian names in full, don’t they? But I happen to detest mine—it is Harriet—and so I always use the initial. I am so sorry!”

“Not at all,” he answered mechanically. It was a good enough reason—so far as it went. But several letters had passed between them and she had made no attempt to correct his misapprehension. He looked at her with greater intensity and recognised, from the faint flush that stained her cheeks, that his guess was right. She had wanted him to think that she was a man. Possibly she realised that few men like business dealings with a woman.

For a moment their eyes met, and if he wanted confirmation, here he had it, for hers were the first to drop, and she said, hurriedly:

“Please come this way. I usually indulge myself with a cup of tea about this time, and I shall be delighted if you will join me.”

He bowed slightly and followed her into the house. Without appearing to look about him, he nevertheless contrived to gain a pretty comprehensive impression of the place.

It was, he decided, essentially a home rather than a show place. The furniture was good, although it was quite evidently there for use rather than because it was old and valuable. The carpets were far from new, but age had mellowed rather than worn them. There were vases of flowers well arranged here and there, plenty of cushions, sizeable ashtrays that even the most casual hand could hardly miss. Charles liked it. The sort of home a man would think of when he was away from it and come back to relax in.

Miss Ravensdale led the way to a small room which caught the afternoon sunshine.

“Do sit down.” She indicated a solid-looking armchair as she walked over to the mantelpiece and gave a quick, competent pull to the old-fashioned bell-pull. Charles, with more eye to detail than is perhaps usual in his sex, noted that, despite its quaintness of style, the pull itself was actually quite new. The colours of the embroidery were fresh and bright.

Until the pink-cheeked, dark-haired maid had brought in the tea, Miss Ravensdale kept the conversation competently to trivial topics, but Charles was keenly aware that for all her ease of manner, he was none the less under close observation.

“Sugar and milk?” she enquired, arching her well-drawn brows in a query.

“Please. One lump.” Charles, for all her quizzing, felt completely at his ease. His first reaction, admittedly, had been one of regret and even resentment that he had not a man with whom to deal. Now he was no longer concerned over the fact, although he was still curious. After all, she
had
let him go on thinking that she was a man. It suggested to him that she was terribly anxious, for all her poise, to get him here.

“Now, Mr. Saxilby,” she said briskly as she handed him his cup. “I think we have discussed matters fairly thoroughly in our letters. You know that we go in for mixed farming here. I have told you our acreage and the way in which it is divided between our various interests. You, on the other hand, have given me a complete account of your experience. It seems to me to be sufficient for you to take charge here.”

She was becoming increasingly nervous! He could sense the tension in the air and became instantly the more cautious, more deliberate.

“Yes, I think it is,” he agreed. “But, of course, I should like to see over the farm ”

“Yes, of course ” she agreed hurriedly.

“And also, I should like to work with your present manager for at least a month before taking over.” Not unreasonable, that, surely. And yet the moment the words were out of his mouth he saw the nervous twitch of a muscle at the corner of her mouth. She set her cup and saucer down with a little jarring crash.

“That,” she said with evident -reluctance, “would be difficult to arrange ”

“Why?” he asked bluntly. “Have you had to sack him?”

"No—” Ever since this conversation had begun, Harriet Ravensdale knew that she had deliberately avoided looking at this astute man with his keen eyes and strong face. Now she drew a deep breath and faced him squarely. “Mr. Saxilby, I think I had better be frank with you. I find myself in an extremely difficult situation—and the difficulties are of such a personal, family nature ...”

She paused, and Charles waited in silence. Evidently she had taken to him as he had to her, but none the less, she was finding it difficult to take him into her confidence. Not a woman who would ever wear her heart on her sleeve, he thought with approval.

Suddenly she began to speak.

“Until four months ago, Windygates belonged to my brother. Then, very unexpectedly, he died. He left everything he had to his daughter, Judith, and, until she is of age, I am her guardian and trustee. My brother ran the farm himself, with Judith’s help. Now, she is running it herself and—it won’t do, Mr. Saxilby. It won’t do! I am determined to put a stop to it.”

She got up hurriedly and stood staring down at the gently smouldering log fire, her back to Charles. It was obvious that she was very much troubled, and Charles, who had come here simply to see about a job, found himself taking command.

“I think, Miss Ravensdale,” he said quietly, “that you had better tell me all about it—right from the beginning.”

And, as if that was all that Harriet Ravensdale had been waiting for, she began to speak hurriedly, yet as if she knew exactly what she had to say.

“It was not until four or five years after they were married that my brother and his wife knew they were going to have a child. Elaine was glad, but mainly, I think, because she knew how delighted Mark would be. And he was. He kept on talking about ‘my son' and planning what he would do, years ahead, for the boy. He was so certain—and then Judith was born. He simply couldn’t believe it. And then, when he knew that there could never be any more children! . . . When Judith was two, Elaine died. I don’t think she wanted to live. You see, she adored Mark and she knew that he blamed her. And yet, in his way, he must have loved her, for he never married again. I—came back here and ran the house for him. And Judith grew up. That was where the trouble began. She had all her mother’s adoration for her father and she knew that he had wanted a boy—he made no attempt to hide it from her. And she, poor child, did her best to be the son he had so wanted. At first it made him laugh. She did not take naturally to riding, for instance. She would fall off time and time again and scramble up again despite her bruises, while her father taunted her that a boy wouldn’t have made such a mess of it!”

“Poor child!” Charles said softly, and Miss Ravensdale shot a grateful glance at him.

“And, after a time, he began to take a queer sort of pride in her. ‘That child simply doesn’t know when she is beaten’ he used to say, and he’d set her harder and harder things to do. And Judith obeyed him blindly, regardless of risk or pain — it frightened me less because of any physical danger than because of the mental effect it was having on her. Her father was bringing her up as a boy, and nothing that I or any of his old friends said made any difference. She had absolutely no use for what are usually regarded as women’s interests—or for women, for that matter. She is reasonably fond of me—but none the less she treats me with a sort of good-natured contempt. I suppose she has been happy enough, but while she has every intention of carrying on the management of the farm just as she did when her father was alive—and she is quite competent to—other people are beginning to take a different view of it.”

“Other farmers—and their wives?” Charles suggested softly. “And the men who have to take orders from her?”

Miss Ravensdale shot a questioning look at him. “Yes,” she said slowly. “That is it. It was one thing for her to mix with other farmers and go to stock sales when everybody knew that her father stood behind her, but now—they resent it. And Judith’s is a contradictory sort of arrogance. It makes her despise her own sex— and yet she feels superior to any man she has met— yet.”

There was a silence which Charles made no attempt to break.

“Now you see,” Miss Ravensdale went on at length, “why, if you come here, you can not only expect no co-operation but, on the contrary, definite opposition. And yet I am determined that, in the six months before Judith will be her own mistress, I will do my best to undo the wrong my brother has done her!”

“Mend in six months the damage of years?” Charles said softly. “I think you are taking on an impossible task, Miss Ravensdale.”

Her hands—hands that were strangely familiar in their elegance—moved in a gesture of despair.

“I know,” she admitted. “And yet, what can I do? Leave things as they are? Do you think that would be right?”

“No, it would be very wrong. Yet you can do little without your niece’s agreement, Miss Ravensdale.”

“She has agreed,” she replied surprisingly. “In principle, that is. I pointed out to her that it was impossible for one person to do the work of two and that the farm must suffer in consequence. That is an argument that she cannot ignore. So, as I said, she agreed in principle. But she has done absolutely nothing to find anyone suitable. Consequently—I have. And I am convinced that when she is faced with a
fait accompli
she will keep her promise. That is one of her traditions.”

“Yes, I think you are right,” Charles agreed. “But— I am not the man!”

“But why—why?” Miss Ravensdale beat her hands gently together. “I admit that Judith said a man good enough to trust would be farming on his own account and that she would have no one less than the best. But that does not apply to you! The reason why you are not farming your own land is easily explained—first the war and then your brother’s need of you! There is nothing to which she can take exception!”

“None the less, I am not the right man,” Charles insisted. “You see, Miss Ravensdale, your niece and I have already met!”

“What!”

“Yes,” he nodded. “In Wyford, an hour or so ago. It must have been her. I heard her addressed as Miss Judith. A slim girl with short dark hair and very lovely hands—like your own, Miss Ravensdale!”