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She nodded dumbly and he went on:

“Yes, I realised it must be, as you were speaking! Believe me, your niece would never agree that I was a suitable choice! You see—our brief encounter was— stormy, to say the least of it.”

“Tell me,” Miss Ravensdale asked.

As briefly as possible Charles explained just what had happened, keeping strictly to facts and making no attempt to explain why he had intervened. When he had done, his hostess nodded.

“You could not have told me anything which would so confirm my own opinion!” she said sadly. “Don’t you understand, Mr. Saxilby, that in those few minutes you saw all that I have been seeing for months! It must be stopped!”

“But not by me,” he insisted. He saw the disappointment in Harriet Ravensdale’s face with very real regret, but he knew he must be firm. The situation would be hopeless from the very first.

“I suppose you are right,” she admitted sadly. “And yet—I cannot help feeling that you are the right man, you know! It is a situation requiring both understanding and patience. And I think you are capable of being both kind—and strong.”

“Soft-hearted and pig-headed, according to my sister-in-law,” he said cheerfully, determined to get the conversation on to a more ordinary basis. “But— no, Miss Ravensdale! I’m sorry, believe me, but that is the right answer, I am sure!”

“Certainly pig-headed!” she said with a flash of humour. “Very well, we will not discuss it any more! But do, at least, pay homage to our cook! These cakes are very good; we have our own butter and eggs, of course, which is just as well, for cook would probably leave us if she could not express her art adequately!” He accepted the cake, admiring her ability to ease what had threatened to become an embarrassing situation and, in his turn, introduced another topic that would help to turn this into purely a pleasant social interlude.

“Furniture?” she glanced round the room with evident love. “Yes, we have some very good stuff here and, of course, it is the better for being used! There is nothing like regular elbow grease, you know! The only drawback is, of course, that there is never any need to buy anything new, and most women have an itch to do that, from time to time!”

“However, things need replacing,” he remarked, indicating the embroidered bell-pull. “That is your work?”

“Yes, my work,” she agreed. “But even that is a copy of the one before—and the one before that!” she sighed. “Please do not imagine I do not love all these things, but home-making is an ingrained instinct in a woman, and it cannot be denied with impunity.”

“I suppose not,” he agreed; then, realising that they were perilously near to getting back to their earlier conversation: “That is a Gainsborough, isn’t it?” he asked, pointing to the one picture that hung in the room.

“Yes, rather a good one, so I am told,” she admitted. “But it is not a family portrait. Actually, no one knows who it is—but it has always been there, so it always will be, I expect! Are you interested in paintings?”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Charles agreed. “Although I don’t know much about them, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps you would like to see our collection?” she suggested. “It is not very big, but there are several good ones.”

She led the way so determinedly out of the room that he could not help but follow. Across the wide hall, up three shallow stairs.

“This is the big drawing-room,” she told him. “It is rarely used now—entertaining is out of fashion these days! Wait, I will draw the curtains!”

It was a handsome, well-proportioned room, although perhaps rather too formal for homeliness. None the less, it was a good setting for the ten or so portraits that hung on the walls. Charles listened with perfectly genuine interest while his hostess told him all she knew about them.

“Here are my brother and his wife,” she said at last. “Judith’s parents.”

He looked at the double portrait with a more personal interest than the others, however good, had been able to arouse in him.

“It was done shortly after they were married,” Miss Ravensdale said softly. “They were very happy then.” A fragile wisp of a woman, a sturdy, virile man— inevitable choice, almost inevitable disaster. The attributes that made the appeal would, in time, be the very ones which grated beyond endurance. A tragedy that might have been averted if there had been a son.

“I do not think Judith will ever have the patience to give sittings,” he heard Miss Ravensdale say regretfully. “This is the nearest that we have to a proper portrait of her!”

Charles took the framed photograph from her. It was obviously an enlargement of a snapshot, but it was very good. Judith, dressed just as he had seen her a short time ago, was on horseback. One hand lay on the horse’s neck as if she were quieting him, yet the action was obviously mechanical, for her head was turned so that she faced the camera. And yet one felt that she must have been unaware that she was being snapped, for her eyes did not look out of the photograph. Instead, they seemed to be fixed on the distant horizon, far beyond any other human being.

Harriet Ravensdale held her breath. What would he see in it? The challenge of the arrogant head, the gentleness of the caressing hand or—something that, as far as she knew, no one but she had ever seen there, the wistful, questing look? .

Charles did not speak. The only sound in the room was the soft ticking of the Louis XV clock on the mantelpiece.

Suddenly, without turning, Charles spoke.

“Miss Ravensdale, if you will allow me to, I am going to usurp a privilege that is usually supposed to be a woman’s! I should like to change my mind about this job!”

HARRIET RAVENSDALE drew a deep, sighing breath.

“I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Saxilby,” she said quietly. “When—when will you begin?”

“Why not now?” Charles asked coolly. He had taken the first, most difficult hurdle in deciding that he would come to Windygates. Having done that, he saw no reason for delay. But, to his surprise, Miss Ravensdale apparently did. He saw that her slim fingers were twisting restlessly and that in the bright afternoon light her face was suddenly a little drawn.

“I’m not sure—” she began, and paused to start again. “I think it might be better if I were to tell Judith first.”

She was afraid, she honestly was, of that attractive but troublesome niece of hers! There was no mistaking the signs, but his liking for her alone was sufficient reason for him to say firmly:

“I disagree with you, Miss Ravensdale. You tell me that Miss Judith Ravensdale has agreed in principle to someone coming here. And you believe that she will not go back on that. I think that if you present her with a
fait accompli
she is far more likely to accept the situation than if you give her time to get her second wind!”

It was not exactly what he meant, but he thought that he could read Miss Ravensdale’s character sufficiently well to know that if he said what was really in his mind—that this way the brunt of the fight would fall on him, whereas the other, she would have to face Judith alone—she would rebel. Pride would make it imperative that she should.

He had, however, reckoned without her shrewdness. Her lips quivered into a little smile.

“That is very ingenious, Mr. Saxilby,” she said with just a hint of dryness in her tone. ‘‘But—confess it, you don’t think I shall be so able to manage Judith as you will!”

Instantly Charles’s face became blank. He had no liking for having his inmost thoughts read as easily as that!

“That is the last thing that I would claim,” he said coolly. “And you should never trust a man who says that he can manage a woman. He is either a liar or a braggart-—which is worse! No, Miss Ravensdale, it is quite simple. If I am not here, it will be possible for your niece to raise all sorts of objections to which it may well be impossible for you to find answers. But if I am here, she can put me to the test in her own way and prove for herself whether I am satisfactory or not!”

Harriet looked at him curiously.

“And do you think, in view of what you have told me of your meeting with Judith, that she will play fair?” she asked.

“As to that, time will show," he replied discreetly. “I can tell you that
I
shall.”

“Oh, dear!” Miss Ravensdale said blankly. “That
will
put you to a disadvantage!”

Charles laughed. Suddenly the situation had become exhilarating, exciting. He knew that nothing in the whole world would make him turn his back on Windygates now—least of all any opposition that Judith could put up—and that he did not' underestimate. He knew quite well that he was in for a difficult time, that everything he did or said would be under constant inspection, but he was not afraid of that. It would, he believed, be a worth-while struggle and, at the end of it—involuntarily he caught his breath, but the next second his manner was entirely controlled and he said easily:

“Now, as to details. I imagine you are not prepared for me to stay. Will it be possible for me to get a room in the village?”

“There is no need for that,” Miss Ravensdale said promptly. “There is rather a charming little cottage on the estate which was always used for the agent before my brother’s day. It has always been kept in repair, and now it is ready for immediate occupation. You see, I was determined that if you agreed to come, accommodation should be no obstacle! You could go there at once, and I can arrange for Mrs. Parlett to keep it clean for you as she does at present. She could probably cook for you as well ”

“Who is Mrs. Parlett?” Charles asked patiently.

“The wife of our chauffeur-handyman,” Miss Ravensdale explained. “They both live here, but Mrs. Parlett is not very strong, so she only helps out in a small way. But I am sure she could do this.”

“That sounds admirable,” Charles admitted “Perhaps you would have a word with her while I go over to the cottage and get myself installed?”

“Yes,” Miss Ravensdale agreed slowly. “Yes, very well. If you will come back to the sitting-room I will give you the key. You continue round the drive in the direction you have already come, so that, if you kept on, you would find the other entry. About three or four hundred yards before you get to those gates, you will find the cottage. It is the only one, and you cannot mistake it because the name is on the gate— Windygates Cottage. Now, if you will come ...”

He followed her back to the room where they had had tea, and she went to a small, neat desk. From it she took rather a large, old-fashioned key and held it in her hand for a moment.

“I wonder if I am doing the right thing?” she murmured. And then she looked Charles straight in the eyes. ‘'Am I, Mr. Saxilby?”

Charles shook his head.

“That I cannot tell you Miss Ravensdale! But I can tell you this: it is something about which you must be very sure in your mind, because otherwise, quite certainly, I shall not last a week here!”

“But I am sure!” she said vehemently and even agitatedly. Then, as Charles did not reply, she repeated the words. But this time she spoke very quietly, very steadily. “I am quite sure, Mr. Saxilby! Here is the key!”

Charles took it from her and turned to go. As he reached the door she called him back.

“Mr. Saxilby, I appreciate your reluctance to claim any ability for managing women, but—I have a distinct feeling, none the less, that I have been very competently managed!”

“Oh no!” Charles said imperturbably. “Surely not! Believe me, nothing was further from my mind! I think it is probable that discussing the matter with me has helped you to see the situation clearly. Thoughts that have been confusing are often clarified when they are put into words!”

“It may be that!” Miss Ravensdale agreed, gravely.

When he had gone, she stood for a long time gazing down into the log fire. At last she sighed.

“Of course, if
that
could be the ultimate outcome. . . . He’s right,
I
can’t undo the influence of years in a few months—but he could!”

Charles drove circumspectly to his new home with a feeling that eyes were watching him. And not only human eyes at that, but the eyes that surely every old house has been given. To Charles they seemed to be brooding, dispassionate, as if, having watched so many frail humans come and go. Windygates was willing to wait, postponing judgment until he had shown "his mettle.

He squared his shoulders. This was imaginative nonsense! What was far more important was Judith’s judgment, and that, he knew, would neither be postponed nor kindly.

However, in the meantime, he had other things to think about. A slight curve in the drive and there was his new home revealed! It was a delightful little place. Built a little later than Windygates itself, he thought, but none the less missing the terrible gaudiness of the
cottage orne
of a later period. He left the car drawn well to one side of the drive and let himself into the cottage.

To his' relief he found that it had been suitably modernised. There was running water, with up-to-date facilities for heating it. Apart from the well-planned kitchen, there were three other rooms, two furnished as bedrooms and one as a sitting-room. Absolutely ideal for a bachelor, Charles thought.

He decided which of the two bedrooms he would use himself and went down to the car to get his luggage. And as he did so he heard the sound of another car approaching.

He guessed who it was, and he was right. Judith, driving a small, workmanlike car which he remembered had been parked next to his own in Wyford, was now returning to her home.

Watching, though as yet unperceived, he saw her eyes widen as she noticed his car. She came to a halt and jumped out to inspect it, and as she did so, Charles approached her. He must have been quieter than he realised, for she did not hear him until he was almost up to her, and then she turned sharply.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded curtly. “This is private property; you are trespassing.”

Evidently she had not realised that he had actually come out of the cottage, he thought. Well, the sooner she did, the better.