I Capture the Castle

the right amount of color. Her black hair is going gray without

looking streaky because it has exactly the right number of gray hairs in exactly the right places--and it has exactly the right amount of

wave. Her figure is perfect, and so were her clothes--just country

tweeds but so much more exciting than I ever thought tweeds could be; they had clear colors in them, shades of blue which made you notice her eyes. I rather fear that I stared too hard at her --I hope she

realized that it was only admiration. As she is Simon Cotton's Mother she can't be much less than fifty, which is hard to believe.

Yet now I come to think of it, I can't imagine her being any younger; it is just that she is a different kind of fifty from any I have ever seen.

She came in talking solidly, and solidly is a very good word to

describe it; it made me think of a wall of talk. Fortunately she

speaks beautifully--just as Simon does--and she doesn't in the least

mind being interrupted; her sons do it all the time and Father soon

acquired the technique--it was him she talked to most. After he had

introduced Topaz and me and she had shaken hands with us all, and hoped Rose had recovered from her shock, and said "Will you look at those swans ?" -she started on to Jacob Wrestling and how she had heard Father lecture in America. They went on interrupting each other in a

perfectly friendly manner, Rose sat on the window seat and talked to

Simon, and Topaz and I slipped out to bring the tea in. Neil kindly

came after us saying he would carry things.

We stood round the kitchen fire waiting for the kettle to boil.

"Doesn't your Mother really know Rose was the bear ?" I asked.

"Gosh, no-that wouldn't do at all," he said, "it isn't her kind of joke. Anyway, it wouldn't be fair to your sister."

I did see that, of course I Mrs. Cotton would have wondered why on

earth Rose was running away. (i suppose Neil guesses it was because

she felt they had dropped us. Dear me, how embarrassing!) "But I can't see how anyone could believe that you killed the bear with a

pitchfork," I said.

"I didn't. I only wounded it- badly, I think, but not enough to put it out of action. It came blundering towards me, I stepped aside and it

crashed head-first into the river- I could hear it threshing about in the darkness. I picked up a big stone-poor brute, I hated to do it but I had to finish it off. It gave just one groan as the stone hit it and then went down. I held the lantern high; I could see the bubbles

coming up. And then I saw the dark bulk of it under the water, being

carried along by the current."

"But you didn't have a lantern," I said.

"He didn't have a bear," said Topaz.

For a moment I had almost believed him myself--and felt most

desperately sorry for the bear. No wonder Mrs.

Cotton has been deceived.

"Mother made us go over to compensate the circus owner this morning,"

he went on, grinning.

"It's just a midget of a circus-he didn't have any bears at all, as a matter of fact; but he said he'd be delighted to back our story up- he hoped it might get him a bit of publicity. I tried to buy one of his

lions but he wouldn't sell."

"What did you want a lion for ?" I asked.

"Oh, they were kind of cute," he said vaguely.

Then the kettle boiled and we took the tea in.

After Neil had helped to hand things round, he went and sat by Rose on the window-seat. And Simon came and talked to Topaz politely. Father

and Mrs. Cotton were still interrupting each other happily. It was

fascinating to watch them all, but the conversations cancelled each

other out so that I couldn't listen to any of them. I was anxious

about Rose. I could see she was letting Neil do most of the talking,

which was excellent; but she didn't seem to be listening to him, which was not so good. She kept leaning out of the window to feed the swans.

Neil looked a bit puzzled.

Then I noticed that Simon kept watching her, and after a while she

caught his eye and gave him a smile. Neil shot a quick glance at her, then got up and asked Topaz for some more tea (though I noticed he

didn't drink it). Simon went over to Rose. She still didn't say much, but she looked as if everything he said was terrifically interesting. I caught a word here and there, he was telling her about Scoatney Hall. I heard her say: "No, I've never seen the inside." He said: "But you must, of course. We were hoping you'd dine with us one night next

week." Then he turned to Mrs. Cotton and she invited us. There was an awful moment when I thought I was going to be left out because she said: "Is Cassandra old enough for dinner parties ?" but Neil said

"You bet she is!" and it was all right.

Oh, I do like Neil! When they went, I walked up the lane with him;

Father was with Mrs. Cotton, and Rose with Simon. Neil asked how we

would get over to Scoatney and when I said we should have to think that out, he arranged to send the car for us. He is the kindest person

-though as we passed the barn I remembered how very far from kind he

was about Rose that day. Perhaps one ought never to count things one

overhears. Anyway, it was Simon who said I was consciously naive--Neil said I was a cute kid; it's not exactly the way I see myself, but it

was kindly meant.

As we walked back to the castle Father said how nice they all were,

then asked if we had dresses for the party. I had been worrying about this myself, but I said:

"Oh, Topaz will manage something."

"Could anything of Aunt Millicent's be altered his If not- damn it, there must be something we can sell--" He gave me a humble, appealing sort of look. I put my arm through his and said quickly:

"We'll be all right." He looked tentatively at Rose. She was smiling faintly to herself. I don't think she had heard a word we had said.

When we went in, Topaz was washing up the tea-things.

"Mortmain, you deserve a medal," she said.

"What for?" said Father.

"Oh, for talking to Mrs.

Cotton? I enjoyed it very much."

Topaz simply stared at him.

"I got used to the vitality of American women when I was over there,"

he explained.

"Do they all talk as much as that?" I asked.

"No, of course not. But she happens to belong to a type I frequently met--it goes to lectures. And entertains afterwards-sometimes they put one up for the night; they're extraordinarily hospitable." He sat on the kitchen table, swinging his legs, looking rather boyish.

"Amazing, their energy," he went on.

"They're perfectly capable of having three or four children, running a house, keeping abreast of art, literature and music-superficially of

course but, good lord, that's something--and holding down a job into

the bargain. Some of them get through two or three husbands as well,

just to avoid stagnation."

"I shouldn't think any husband could stay the course for more than a few years," said Topaz.

"I felt that myself at first--the barrage of talk left me utterly depleted. But after a time I got used to it.

They're rather like punch balls -you buffet them, they buffet you, and on the whole the result's most stimulating."

"Unless they knock you out altogether," said Topaz, drily.

"They have that effect occasionally," Father admitted.

"Quite a number of American men are remarkably silent."

"She seemed to know a lot about Jacob Wrestling," I said.

"She'd probably read it up before she came--they do that, and very civil of them. Curious how many of them are prematurely gray; most

becoming. And I must say it's a pleasure to see a woman so well

turned-out."

He began to hum abstractedly and went off to the gatehouse as if he had suddenly forgotten all about us. I could have slapped him for that

"well turned-out" remark, because Topaz was looking so particularly far from well turned-out. She was wearing her hand woven dress which is

first cousin to a sack and her lovely hair, being rather in need of a wash, was pushed into a torn old net.

"Perhaps he'd find it stimulating if I talked as much as that," she said.

"We shouldn't," I told her. Actually, I had thought Mrs. Cotton very stimulating myself, but had no intention of being so tactless as to say so.

"Topaz, will there be moths in his evening clothes his He can't have worn them since Aunt Millicent's parties."

But she said she had taken care of them.

"We'll have to get him some studs, though, because he sold his good ones. Oh, Cassandra, it's fantastic- a genius, a man American critics write essays on, and he hasn't a decent stud to his name."

I said many geniuses had lacked shirts to put the studs in; then we got talking about our own clothes for the party.

I am all right--my white, school Speech Day frock will pass for anyone as young as I am, Topaz says. And she can fix up one of her old

evening dresses for herself. Rose is the problem.

"There's not a thing of your aunt's I can use for her," said Topaz,

"and nothing of my own is suitable. She needs something frilly. As we'll never be able to stop her turning on the Early Victorian charm, we ought to accentuate it."

I could hear Rose playing the piano. I closed the kitchen door and

said: "What did you think of her manner today ?"

"At least it was quieter, though she was still making eyes. But, anyway, it doesn't matter now."

1 looked at her in astonishment and she went on:

"Simon Cotton's attracted--really attracted--couldn't you see?

Once that happens, a girl can be as silly as she likes--the man'll

probably think the silliness is fetching."

"Is Neil attracted, too ?"

"I doubt it," said Topaz.

"I've an idea that Neil sees through her -- I saw him give her a very shrewd look.

Oh, how are we going to dress her, Cassandra his There's a chance for her with Simon, really there isI know the signs."

I had a sudden picture of Simon's face, pale above the beard.

"But would you really like her to marry him, Topaz?" I asked.

"I'd like her to get the chance," said Topaz, firmly.

Miss Marcy arrived then with a book for Father. She told us the Vicar has been invited for the same night as we have she heard from his

housekeeper.

"Most people have only been asked to lunches or teas," she said.

"Dinner's ever so much more splendid."

We told her about the problem of Rose's dress.

"It should be pink," she said, "a crinoline effect-there's the very thing here in this week's Home Chat."

She dived into her satchel for it.

"Oh, dear, that would be perfect for her," sighed Topaz.

Miss Marcy blushed and blinked her eyes, then said:

"Could you make it, Mrs. Mortmain? If--if dear Rose allowed me to give her the material?"

"I'll allow you," said Topaz.

"I feel justified."

Miss Marcy shot her a quick glance and Topaz gave her the very faintest nod. I nearly laughed--they were so different, Miss Marcy like a rosy little bird and Topaz tall and pale, like a slightly dead goddess, but just that second they so much resembled each other in their absolute

lust to marry Rose off.

"Perhaps we could offer Miss Marcy something of Aunt Millicent's as a small return," I suggested. They went off to the dining-room where the clothes are spread out, while I stayed to get Stephen his tea--Topaz

had decided that those of us who'd had afternoon tea would have supper with cocoa, later.

Stephen was worried to hear I shall be wearing such an old dress at

Scoatney.

"Couldn't you have a new sash?" he asked.

"I've got some money saved."

I thanked him but said my blue Speech Day sash was as good as new.

"Then a ribbon for your hair, Miss Cassandra ?"

"Goodness, I haven't worn a hair-ribbon since I was a child," I told him.

"You used to have little bows on the ends of your plaits before you cut your hair," he said.

"They were pretty."

Then he asked how I liked the two Cottons, now I knew them better.

"Oh, I don't know Simon at all--he talked to Rose most of the time. But Neil's very nice."

"Would you call him handsome ?"

I said I hardly thought so--"Not really handsome--not the way you are, Stephen."

I spoke without thinking--we all of us take his good looks for granted; but he blushed so much that I wished I hadn't said it.

"You see, you have classical features," I explained, in a matter-of fact voice.

"It seems a waste when I'm not a gentleman."

He grinned--a little sarcastic sort of grin.

"Don't talk like that," I said quickly.

"Gentlemen are men who behave like gentlemen. And you certainly do."

He shook his head.

"You can only be a gentleman if you're born one, Miss Cassandra."

"Stephen, that's old-fashioned nonsense," I said.

"Really, it is.

And, by the way, will you please stop calling me "Miss" Cassandra."

He looked astonished. Then he said: "Yes, I see. It should be "Miss Mortmain" now you're grown up enough for dinner parties."

"It certainly shouldn't," I said.

"I mean you must call me Cassandra, without the "Miss." You're one of the family--it's absurd you should ever have called me "Miss." Who told you to ?"

"My Mother--she set a lot of store by it," he said.

"I remember the first day we came here. You and Miss Rose were

throwing a ball in the garden and I ran to the kitchen door thinking

I'd play, too.

Mother called me back and told me how you were young ladies, and I was never to play with you unless I was invited. And to call you "Miss,"

and never to presume. She had a hard job explaining what "presume"

meant."

"Oh, Stephen, how awful! And you'd be--how old ?"

"Seven, I think. You'd be six and Miss Rose nine. Thomas was only four, but she told me to call him "Master Thomas." Only he asked me not to, years ago."

"And I ought to have asked you years ago." I'd never given it a thought. His Mother had been in service for years before she married.

When she was left a widow she had to go back to it and board Stephen

out. I know she was very grateful when Mother let her bring him here, so perhaps that made her extra humble.

"Well, anyway, I've asked you now," I went on, "so will you please remember ?"

"Would I call Miss Rose just "Rose"?" he asked.

I wasn't sure how Rose would feel about it so I said: "Oh, why worry about Rose his This is between you and me."

"I couldn't call her "Miss" and not you," he said firmly.

"It'd be setting her above you."

I said I would talk to Rose about it, then asked him to pass his cup

for more tea- I was getting a bit embarrassed by the subject.

He stirred his second cup for a long time, then said:

"Did you mean that about gentlemen being men who behave like gentlemen

?"

"Of course I did, Stephen. I swear I did --really."

I was so anxious to make him believe me that I leaned towards him,

across the table. He looked at me, right into my eyes. That queer,

veiled expression in his--that I fear I used to call his daft look- was suddenly not there; there seemed to be a light in them and yet I have never seen them look so dark. And they were so direct that it was more like being touched than being looked at. It only lasted a second, but for that second he was quite a different person --much more

interesting, even a little bit exciting.

Then Thomas came in and I jumped up from the table.

"Why are you so red in the face, my girl?" he said maddeningly --I do understand why Rose sometimes wants to hit him. Fortunately he didn't wait for an answer, but went on to say there was a bit in the King's

Crypt paper about the bear being washed up twenty miles away. I

laughed and put an egg on to boil for him.

Stephen went out into the garden.

All the time I was giving Thomas his tea I was worrying--because I

suddenly knew I couldn't go on pretending that Stephen is just vaguely devoted to me and it doesn't in the least matter. I hadn't given it a thought for weeks, and I certainly hadn't been brisk with him, as

Father suggested. I told myself I would start at once; and then I felt I couldn't-not after I had just asked him to stop calling me "Miss."

Incidentally, I never felt less brisk in my life, because being looked at like that makes a person feel dizzy.

I went into the garden to think things out. It was that time of

evening when pale flowers look paler- the daffodils seemed almost

white; they were very still, everything was still, hushed. Father's

lamp was lit in the gatehouse, Topaz and Miss Marcy had a candle in the dining-room, Rose was still playing the piano in the drawing-room,

without a light. I'd stopped feeling dizzy; I had a strange, excited

feeling. I went through the gatehouse passage out into the lane and

walked past the barn. Stephen came out.

He didn't smile as he usually does when he sees me; he looked at me

with a kind of questioning expression. Then he said: "Let's go for a little walk."

I said: "All right." And then: "No, I don't think I will, Stephen. I want to see Miss Marcy again before she goes."

I didn't want to see Miss Marcy in the least.

I wanted to go for the walk. But I suddenly knew I mustn't.

Stephen just nodded. Then we went back to the castle together without saying a word to each other.

When Rose and I were going to bed I asked her if she would mind Stephen dropping the "Miss."

"I don't mind one way or the other," she said.

"After all, I'm eating the food he pays for."

I started to talk about the Cottons then, but she wouldn't be jolly or excited about them--she seemed to want to think. And I did some quiet thinking myself.

Early this morning I met Stephen letting out the hens and told him Rose would like him to stop saying "Miss." I was splendidly brisk; it's easy to be brisk in the early morning. He just said: "All right,"

without very much expression. Over breakfast Rose and Topaz were

planning to go to King's Crypt to buy the stuff for Rose's dress. (they are there now, I have had most of the day to myself.) I was at the

fire, making toast. Stephen came over to me.

"Please let me ask Mrs. Mortmain to get you something for the party,"

he said.

I thanked him but said I didn't need a thing.

"You're sure?" Then he added, very softly and as if he were trying out some difficult word: "Cassandra."

We both blushed. I had thought that dropping the "Miss" for Rose as well would make it quite ordinary, but it didn't.

"Goodness, this fire's hot," I said.

"No, honestly- I can't think of anything I want."

"Then I'll.just go on saving up for--for what I was saving up for," he said, and then went off to work.

It is now four o'clock. Father has gone to call on the Vicar so I have the castle to myself. It's odd how different a house feels when one is alone in it. It makes it easier to think rather private thoughts --I

shall think some ..... I didn't get very far with my thoughts. It is

the still, yellow kind of afternoon when one is apt to get stuck in a dream if one sits very quiet--I have been staring blankly at the bright square of the kitchen window for a good ten minutes. I shall pull

myself together and do some honest thinking ...... I have thought. And I have discovered the following things:

(1) I do not reciprocate Stephen's feelings.

(2) I wanted to go that walk with him yesterday evening and having

always loathed girls in books who are too, too innocent, I set it on

record: I think) I thought that if I did go, he would kiss me.

(3) This morning, by the hen-house, I did not wish him to kiss me.

(4) This moment, I do not think I wish him to kiss me .... I have

thought some more--I have been stuck in the un-blank kind of dream. I re-lived the minute when Stephen looked at me across the table. Even

to remember it made me feel dizzy. I liked feeling dizzy. Then, in my mind, I went for the walk with him that I didn't go. We went along the lane, over the Godsend road and into the little larch wood. There are no bluebells there yet, but I put them in. It was nearly dark in the

wood and suddenly cool, cold, there was a waiting feeling. I made up

things for Stephen to say, I heard his voice saying them. It got

darker and darker until there was only the palest gleam of sky through the tops of the trees. And at last he kissed me.

But I couldn't make that up at all--I just couldn't imagine how it

would feel. And I suddenly wished I hadn't imagined any of it..

I am finishing this in the bedroom because I heard Stephen washing at the garden pump and dashed upstairs. I have just looked down on him

from the window and I feel most guilty about taking him for that walk in my mind; guilty and ashamed, with a weak feeling round my ribs. I

won't do that sort of imagining again. And I am now quite certain I

don't want him to kiss me.

He does look extremely handsome there by the pump but the daft look is back again- oh, poor Stephen, I am a beast, it isn't really daft!

Though he certainly couldn't have thought of all those things I made

him say; some of them were rather good.

I won't think about it any more. My spare time pleasure-thinking shall be about the party at Scoatney, which is really much more interesting-though perhaps more interesting for Rose than for me.

I wonder what it would be like to be kissed by either of the Cottons.

NO! I am not going to imagine that.

Really, I'm shocked at myself And anyway, there isn't time Rose and

Topaz are due back.

I should rather like to tear these last pages out of the book.

Shall I his No- a journal ought not to cheat. And I feel sure no one

but me can read my speed-writing. But I shall hide the book --I always lock it up in my school attache case and this time I shall take the

case out to Belmotte Tower; I have a special place for hiding things

there that not even Rose knows of. I shall go through the front door

to avoid meeting Stephen I really don't know how I can look him in the face after borrowing him as I have done. I will be brisk with him in

future- I swear I will!

VIII

I shall have to do the evening at Scoatney bit by bit, for I know I

shall be interrupted- I shall want to be, really, because life is too exciting to sit still for long. On top of the Cottons' appearing to

like us, we have actually come by twenty pounds, the Vicar having

bought the rug that looks like a collie dog. Tomorrow we are going

shopping in King's Crypt. I am to have a summer dress. Oh, it is

wonderful to wake up in the morning with things to look forward to!

Now about Scoatney. All week we were getting ready for the party.

Topaz bought yards and yards of pink muslin for Rose's frock and made it most beautifully. (at one time, before she was an artists' model,

Topaz worked at a great dressmaker's, but she will never tell us about it--or about any of her pasts, which always surprises me because she is so frank about many things.) Rose had a real crinoline to wear under

the dress; only a small one but it made all the difference. We

borrowed it from Mr. Stebbins's grandmother, who is ninety-two. When

the dress was finished, he brought her over to see Rose in it and she told us she had worn the crinoline at her wedding in Godsend Church,

when she was sixteen. I thought of Wallet's "Go, Lovely Rose' How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

--though I refrained from mentioning it; the poor old lady was.

crying enough without that. But she said she had enjoyed the outing.

It was fun while we were all sewing the frills for the dress; I kept

pretending we were in a Victorian novel. Rose was fairly willing to

play, but she always shut up if I brought the Cottons into the game.

And we had no nice friendly candlelight conversations about them.

She wasn't cross or sulky, she just seemed preoccupied--given to lying in bed not even reading, with a faint smirk on her face. Now I come to think of it, I was just as secretive about myself and Stephen, it would have embarrassed me dreadfully to tell her about my feelings; but then I have always been more secretive than she usually is.

And I know that she thinks of him as- well, as a boy of a different

class from ours. (do I think it, too? If so, I am ashamed of such

snobbishness.) I am thankful to be able to record that I have been

brisk- though perhaps it would be truer to say that I haven't been un brisk except for that second last night when I took his hand But that is part of the evening at Scoatney Hall.

It was thrilling when we started to get dressed. There was still some daylight left, but we drew the curtains and brought up the lamp and lit candles, because I once read that women of fashion dress for

candlelight by candlelight. Our frocks were laid out on the

four-poster, mine had been washed and Topaz had cut the neck down a

bit. Miss Blossom was ecstatic about Rose's --she said: "My word, that'll fetch the gentlemen. And I never knew yon had such white

shoulders- fancy God giving you that hair but no freckles!" Rose laughed, but she was cross because she couldn't see herself full

length; our long looking-glass got sold. I held our small one so that she could look at herself in sections, but it was tantalizing for

her.

"There's the glass over the drawing-room fireplace," I said.

"Perhaps if you stood on the piano-was She went down to try.

Father came from the bathroom and went through to his bed room. The

next second I heard him shout:

"Good God, what have you done to yourself?"

He sounded so horrified that I thought Topaz had had some accident. I dashed into Buffer State but stopped myself outside their bedroom door; I could see her from there. She was wearing a black evening dress that she never has liked herself in, a very conventional dress. Her hair

was done up in a bun and she had make-up on- not much, just a little

rouge and lipstick. The result was astounding. She looked quite

ordinary--just vaguely pretty but not worth a second glance.

Neither of them saw me. I heard her say:

"Oh, Mortmain, this is Rose's night. I want all the attention to be focussed on her" I tiptoed back to the bedroom. I was bewildered at such unselfishness, particularly as she had spent hours mending her

best evening dress. I knew what she meant, of course --at her most

striking she can make Rose's beauty look like mere prettiness. Suddenly I remembered that first night the Cottons came here, how she tried to efface herself. Oh, noble Topaz!

I heard Father shout:

"To hell with that. God knows I've very little left to be proud of.

At least let me be proud of my wife."

There was a throaty gasp from Topaz: "Oh, my darling!"--and then I hastily went downstairs and kept Rose talking in the drawing room I

felt this was something we oughtn't to be in on. And I felt

embarrassed-- I always do when I really think of Father and Topaz being married.

When they came down Topaz was as white as usual and her silvery hair, which was at its very cleanest, was hanging down her back. She had her best dress on which is Grecian in shape, like a clinging gray cloud,

with a great gray scarf which she had draped round her head and

shoulders. She looked most beautiful--and just how I imagine the

Angel of Death.

The Cottons' car came, with a uniformed chauffeur, and out we sailed. I was harrowed at leaving Stephen and Thomas behind, but Topaz had

arranged they should have a supper with consoling sausages.

It was a huge, wonderful car. We none of us talked very much in

it--personally, I was too conscious of the chauffeur; he was so rigid and correct and had such outstanding ears. I just sat back watching

the darkening fields drift past, feeling rather frail and luxurious.

And I thought about us all and wondered how the others were feeling.

Father looked very handsome in his evening clothes and he was kind and smiling but I could see he was nervous; at least, I thought I could,

but then it struck me how little I know of him, or of Topaz or Rose or anyone in the world, really, except myself. I used to flatter myself

that I could get flashes of what people were thinking but if I did, it was only of quick, surface thoughts.

All these years and I don't know what has stopped Father working!

And I don't really know what Rose feels about the Cottons. As for

Topaz--but I never did get any flashes of knowing her. Of course I

have always realized that she is kind, but I should never have thought her capable of making that noble sacrifice for Rose. And just as I was feeling ashamed of ever having thought her bogus, she said in a voice like plum-cake:

"Look, Mortmain, look! Oh, don't you long to be an old, old man in a lamp-lit inn ?"

"Yes, particularly one with rheumatism," said Father.

"My dear, you're an ass."

We called for the Vicar, which made it rather a squash, what with

Rose's crinoline .. . He is the nicest man- about fifty, plump, with

curly golden hair; rather like an elderly baby-and most unholy. Father once said to him: "God knows how you came to be a clergyman." And the Vicar said: "Well, it's His business to know."

After he'd had a look at us he said:

"Mortmain, your women are spectacular."

"I'm not," I said.

"Ah, but you're the insidious type--Jane Eyre with a touch of Becky Sharp. A thoroughly dangerous girl. I like your string of coral."

Then he got us all talking and even made the chauffeur laugh the odd

thing is that he makes people laugh without saying anything very funny.

I suppose it is because he is such a comfortable sort of man.

It was dark when we got to Scoatney Hall and all the windows were lit up. There is a right-of-way through the park and I had often cycled

there on my way home from school, so I knew what the outside of the

house was like--it is sixteenth-century except for the

seventeenth-century pavilion in the water-garden; but I was longing to see inside. We went up shallow steps that had been worn into a deep

curve, and the front door was opened before we had time to ring the

bell. I had never met a butler before and he made me feel

self-conscious, but the Vicar knew him and said something normal to

him.

We left our wraps in the hall--Topaz had lent us things to save us the shame of wearing our winter coats. There was a wonderful atmosphere of gentle age, a smell of flowers and beeswax, sweet yet faintly sour and musty; a smell that makes you feel very tender towards the past.

We went into quite a little drawing-room, where the Cottons were

standing by the fireplace with two other people. Mrs.

Cotton was talking up to the moment we were announced; then she turned to us and was absolutely silent for a second--I think she was

astonished at how Rose and Topaz looked. I noticed Simon looking at

Rose. Then we were all shaking hands and being introduced to the

others.

They were a Mr. and Mrs. Fox-Cotton-English relations of the Cottons; rather distant ones, I think. As soon as I heard the husband called

"Aubrey" I remembered that he is an architect- I read something about his work in a magazine once. He is middle-aged, with a grayish face

and thin, no-colored hair. There is something very elegant about him

and he has a beautiful speaking-voice, though it is a bit affected. I was next to him while we were drinking our cocktails (my first--and it tasted horrid) so I asked him about the architecture of the house. He launched forth at once.

"What makes it so perfect," he said, "is that it's a miniature great house. It has everything--great hall, long gallery, central court

yard- but it's on so small a scale that it's manageable, even in these days. I've hankered for it for years. How I wish I could persuade

Simon to let me have it on a long lease."

He said it as much for Simon to hear as for me.

Simon laughed and said: "Not on your life."

Then Mr. Fox-Cotton said: "Do tell me--the exquisite lady in gray-surely she's the Topaz of Macmorris's picture in the Tate Gallery?" And after we had talked about Topaz for a minute or two, he drifted over to her. I had time to notice that Simon was admiring Rose's dress and

that she was telling him about the crinoline- which seemed to fascinate him, he said he must go and see old Mrs.

Stebbins; then the Vicar joined me and obligingly finished my cocktail for me. Soon after that we went in to dinner.

The table was a pool of candlelight--so bright that the rest of the

room seemed almost black, with the faces of the family portraits

floating in the darkness.

Mrs. Cotton had Father on her right and the Vicar on her left.

Topaz was on Simon's right, Mrs.

Fox-Cotton on his left. Rose was between the Vicar and Mr.

Fox-Cotton--I wished she could have been next to Simon, but I suppose married women have to be given precedence. I have an idea that Neil

just may have asked for me to be next to him, because he told me I

would be, as we went in. It made me feel very warm towards him.

It was a wonderful dinner with real champagne (lovely, rather like very good ginger ale without the ginger). But I wish I could have had that food when I wasn't at a party, because you can't notice food fully when you are being polite. And I was a little bit nervous --the knives and forks were so complicated. I never expected to feel ignorant about

such things--we always had several courses for dinner at Aunt

Millicent's -but I couldn't even recognize all the dishes. And it was no use trying to copy Neil because his table manners were quite strange to me. I fear he must have seen me staring at him once because he

said: "Mother thinks I ought to eat in the English way- she and Simon have gotten into it --but I'm darned if I will."

I asked him to explain the difference. It appears that in America it

is polite to cut up each mouthful, lay down the knife on your plate,

change your fork from the left to the right hand, load it, eat the

fork-full, change the fork back to your left hand, and pick up the

knife again-and you must take only one kind of food on the fork at a

time; never a nice comfortable podge of meat and vegetables together.

"But that takes so long," I said.

"No, it doesn't," said Neil.

"Anyway, it looks terrible to me the way you all hang on to your knives."

The idea of anything English people do looking terrible quite annoyed me, but I held my peace.

"Tell you another thing that's wrong over here," Neil went on, waving his fork slightly.

"Look at the way everything's being handed to your stepmother first.

Back home it'd be handed to Mother."

"Don't you care to be polite to the guest?" I said. Dear me, what a superior little horror I must have sounded.

"But it is polite--it's a lot more considerate, anyway. Because the hostess can always show you what to do with the food- if you turn out soup on your plate or take a whole one of anything-don't you see what I mean ?"

I saw very clearly and I did think it a wonderfully good idea.

"Well, perhaps I could even get used to changing my fork from hand to hand," I said, and had a go at it. I found it very difficult.

The Vicar was watching us across the table.

"When this house was built, people used daggers and their fingers," he said.

"And it'll probably last until the days when men dine off capsules."

"Fancy asking friends to come over for capsules," I said.

"Oh, the capsules will be taken in private," said Father.

"By that time, eating will have become unmentionable. Pictures of food will be considered rare and curious, and only collected by rude old

gentlemen."

Mrs. Fox-Cotton spoke to Neil then and he turned to talk to her;

so I got a chance to look round the table. Both Father and the Vicar

were listening to Mrs. Cotton; Aubrey Fox-Cotton was monopolizing

Topaz. For the moment, no one was talking to either Rose or Simon. I

saw him look at her. She gave him a glance through her eyelashes and

though I know what Topaz means about it being old fashioned, it was

certainly a most fetching glance-perhaps Rose has got into better

practice now. Anyway, I could see that Simon wasn't being put off by

it this time. He raised his glass and looked at her across it almost

as if he were drinking a toast to her. His eyes looked rather handsome above the glass and I suddenly had a hope that she could really fall in love with him, in spite of the beard. But heavens, I couldn't She

smiled--the faintest flicker of a smile nand then turned and spoke to the Vicar. I thought to myself: "She's learning"--be cause it would have been very obvious if she had looked at Simon any longer.

I had a queer sort of feeling, watching them all and listening;

perhaps it was due to what Father had been saying a few minutes before.

It suddenly seemed astonishing that people should meet especially to

eat together--because food goes into the mouth and talk comes out. And if you watch people eating and talking --really watch them- it is a

very peculiar sight: hands so busy, forks going up and down,

swallowings, words coming out between mouthfuls, jaws working like

mad. The more you look at a dinner party, the odder it seems- all the candlelit faces, hands with dishes coming over shoulders, the owners of the hands moving round quietly taking no part in the laughter and

conversation. I pulled my mind off the table and stared into the

dimness beyond, and then I gradually saw the servants as real people, watching us, whispering instructions to each other, exchanging

glances.

I noticed a girl from Godsend village and gave her a tiny wink--and

wished I hadn't, because she let out a little snort of laughter and

then looked in terror at the butler. The next minute my left ear heard something which made my blood run cold--an expression I have always

looked down on, but I really did get a cold shiver between my

shoulders:

Mrs. Cotton was asking Father how long it was since he had published

anything.

"A good twelve years," he said in the blank voice which our family accepts as the close of a conversation. It had no such effect on Mrs.

Cotton.

"You've thought it best to lie fallow," she said.

"How few writers have the wisdom to do that." Her tone was most understanding, almost reverent. Then she added briskly: "But it's been long enough, don't you think ?"

I saw Father's hand grip the table. For an awful second I thought he

was going to push his chair back and walk out--as he so often does at home if any of us annoy him. But he just said, very quietly:

"I've given up writing, Mrs. Cotton. And now let's talk of something interesting."

"But this is interesting," she said. I sneaked a look at her. She was very upright, all deep blue velvet and pearls-I don't think I ever saw a woman look so noticeably clean.

"And I warn you I'm quite unsnubbable, Mr. Mortmain. When a writer so potentially great as you keeps silent so long, it's somebody's duty to find out the reason. Automatically, one's first guess is drink, but that's obviously not your trouble. There must be some psychological--"

Just then Neil spoke to me.

"Quiet, a minute," I whispered, but I missed the rest of Mrs.

Cotton's speech. Father said:

"Good God, you can't say things like that to me at your own dinner table."

"Oh, I always employ shock tactics with men of genius," said Mrs.

Cotton.

"And one has to employ them in public or the men of genius bolt."

"I'm perfectly capable of bolting, in public or out," said Father-but I could tell he wasn't going to; there was an easy, amused tone in his

voice that I hadn't heard for years. He went on banteringly, "Tell me, are you unique or has the American club woman become more menacing

since my day?" It seemed to me a terribly rude thing to say, even in fun, but Mrs. Cotton didn't appear to mind in the least. She just

said smilingly, "I don't happen to be what you mean by a club woman.

And anyway, I think we must cure you of this habit of generalizing

about America on the strength of two short lecture tours." Serve Father right--he has always talked as if he had brought America home in his trouser pocket. Naturally I wanted to go on listening, but I saw

Mrs.

Cotton notice me; so I turned quickly to Neil.

"All right now," I said.

"What was it ?" he asked.

"Did you think you'd broken a tooth ?"

I laughed and told him what I had been listening to.

"You just wait," he said.

"She'll have him turning out master pieces eight hours a day- unless, of course, he goes for her with a cake-knife."

I stared at him in amazement. He went on:

"Oh, she had our attorney send us all the details of the case. Made me laugh a lot. But I guess she was a bit disappointed that it wasn't a

real attempt at murder."

"Can you understand how a ridiculous thing like that could put him off his work ?" I asked.

"Why, I don't even understand your Father's work when he was on it,"

said Neil.

"I'm just not literary."

After that, we talked of other things--I felt it would be polite to ask questions about America. He told me about his father's ranch in

California, where he had lived until he joined Mrs. Cotton and Simon.

(it is strange to realize how little he has had to do with them.) I

said it seemed very sad that the father had died before he could

inherit Scoatney Hall.

"He wouldn't have lived in it, anyway," said Neil.

"He'd never have settled down anywhere but in America--any more than I shall."

I almost began to say "But your brother's going to live here, isn't he?" but I stopped myself. Neil had sounded so cross that I felt it might be a sore subject. I asked him if he liked Rose's dress-mostly

to change the conversation.

He said: "Not very much, if you want the honest truth it too fussy for me. But she looks very pretty in it.

Knows it, too, doesn't she ?"

There was a twinkle in his eye which took off the rudeness. And I must admit that Rose was knowing it all over the place.

The most wonderful frozen pudding came round then and while Neil

helped himself, I let my left ear listen to Father and Mrs. Cotton

again. They seemed to be getting on splendidly, though it did sound a bit like a shouting match. I saw Topaz look across anxiously, then

look relieved: Father was chuckling.

"Oh, talk to the Vicar- give me a rest," he said.

"But I shall return to the attack," said Mrs.

Cotton. Her eyes were sparkling and she looked about twice as healthy as anyone normally does.

"Well, how are you enjoying your first grown-up dinner party ?"

Father asked me- it was the first word he had spoken to me throughout the meal but I could hardly blame him for that. He was rather flushed and somehow larger than usual--there was a touch of the magnificence I still remember about him from pre-cake-knife days.

He had a slight return of it when he married Topaz, but it didn't last.

The awful thought came to me that he might be going to fall in love

with Mrs. Cotton. She was talking to him again within a couple of

minutes. Soon after that the females left the table.

As we went upstairs, Topaz slipped her arm through mine.

"Could you hear?" she whispered.

"Is he really enjoying himself?

Or was he just putting it on?"

I told her I thought it was genuine.

"It's wonderful to see him like that"--but her voice sounded wistful.

It is one of her theories that a woman must never be jealous, never try to hold a man against his will; but I could tell that she hadn't

enjoyed seeing someone else bring Father to life.

Mrs. Cotton's bedroom was lovely- there were lots of flowers, and new books lying around and a chaise-longue piled with fascinating little

cushions; and a wood fire--it must be heaven to have fire in one's

bedroom. The bathroom was unbelievable--the walls were looking-glass!

And there was a glass table with at least half a-dozen bottles of scent and toilet water on it. (americans say "perfume" instead of

"scent"--much more correct, really; I don't know why "perfume" should be considered affected in England.) "Simon says this bathroom's an outrage on the house," said Mrs.

Cotton, "but I've no use for antiquity in bathrooms."

"Isn't it lovely ?" I said to Rose.

"Glorious," she said, in an almost tragic voice. I could see she was liking it so much that it really hurt her.

When we had tidied up we went to the Long Gallery- it stretches the

full length of the house and as it is narrow it seems even longer than it is. It has three fireplaces and there were fires in all of them,

but it wasn't at all too hot. Rose and I strolled along looking at the pictures and statues and interesting things in glass cases, while

Mrs.

Cotton talked to Topaz. Mrs.

Fox-Cotton had disappeared after dinner;

I suppose she went off to her own bedroom.

We got to the fireplace at the far end of the gallery and stood looking back at the others; we could hear their voices but not a word of what they were saying, so we felt it was safe to talk.

"What sort of a time did you have at dinner?" I asked.

She said it had been boring--she didn't like Mr.

Fox-Cotton and, anyway, he had only been interested in Topaz:

"So I concentrated on the wonderful food. What did you and Neil talk about?"

"Amongst other things, he said you looked very pretty," I told "What else?"

"About America, mostly." I remembered as much as I could for her, particularly about the ranch in California; I had liked the sound of

it.

"What, cows and things ?" she said, disgustedly.

"Is he going back there ?"

"Oh, it was sold when the Father died. But he did say he'd like to have a ranch himself if ever he could afford it."

"But aren't they very rich ?"

"Oh, shut up," I whispered, and took a quick look at Mrs. Cotton; but we were really quite safe.

"I don't suppose Neil's rich and it probably takes all Simon's money to keep this place up. Come on, we'd better go back."

As we reached the fireplace in the middle of the gallery, Mrs. Fox

Cotton came in. It was the first time I'd had a really good look at

her.

She is small, not much bigger than I am, with straight black hair done in an enormous knob low on her neck, and a very dark skin.

Both skin and hair look greasy to me.

Topaz says the modelling of the face is beautiful and I do see that,

but I don't think the modelling would be damaged by a real good wash.

She was wearing a clinging dark green dress, so shiny that it looked

almost slimy- it made me think of sea-weed. Her Christian name,

believe it or not, is Leda.

Rose and I walked to meet her but she sat down on a sofa, put her feet up and opened an old calf-bound book she had brought in with her.

"Do you mind ?" she said.

"I want to finish this before we go back to London tomorrow."

"What is it ?" I asked, out of politeness.

"Oh, it's no book for little girls," she said.

She has the silliest voice, a little tinny bleat; she barely bothers to open her mouth and the words just slide through her teeth. In view of what happened later, I put it on record that it was then I first

decided that I didn't like her.

The men came in then- I noticed she was quick enough to stop reading

for them. Father and Simon seemed to be finishing a literary argument; I hoped they'd had a really good discussion downstairs. It was

interesting to notice where the men went: Father and the Vicar talked to Mrs. Cotton, Aubrey Fox-Cotton made a dive for Topaz, Simon and

Neil came towards Rose and me- but Mrs. Fox-Cotton got off her sofa

and intercepted Simon.

"Did you know there's a picture here with a look of you?" she told him, and put her arm through his and marched him along the gallery.

"Oh, I noticed that," I said. Rose and Neil and I walked after them, which I bet didn't please Mrs. FC.

at all.

It was one of the earliest pictures -Elizabethan, I think; there was a small white ruff at the top of the man's high collar. It was just a

head and shoulders against a dark background.

"It's probably only the beard that's like," said Simon.

"No, the eyes," said Mrs. Fox-Cotton.

"The eyebrows mostly," I said, "the little twist at the corners. And the hair the way it grows on the forehead, in a peak."

Rose was staring hard at the picture. Simon asked her what she

thought. She turned and looked at him intently; she seemed to be

taking in his features one by one. Yet when she finally answered she

only said: "Oh, a little like, perhaps," rather vaguely.

I had a feeling that she had been thinking about something quite

different from the picture, something to do with Simon himself; and had come back from a very long way, to find us all waiting for her

answer.

We strolled back to the others. Topaz and Aubrey Fox-Cotton were

looking at pictures too; they were with the eighteenth-century

Cottons.

"I've got it," he said suddenly to Topaz, "you're really a Blake. Isn't she, Leda ?"

Mrs. F-C. seemed to take a mild interest in this. She gave Topaz a

long, appraising stare and said: "Yes, if she had more flesh on her bones."

"Rose is a Romney," said Simon.

"She's quite a bit like Lady Hamilton." It was the first time I had heard him use her Christian name.

"And Cassandra's a Reynolds, of course the little girl with the

mousetrap."

"I'm not!" I said indignantly.

"I hate that picture. The mouse is terrified, the cat's hungry and the girl's a cruel little beast. I refuse to be her."

"Ah, but you'd let the mouse out of the trap and find a nice dead sardine for the cat," said Simon. I began to like him a little

better.

The others were busy thinking of a painter for Mrs. Fox-Cotton.

They finally decided on a Surrealist named Dali.

"With snakes coming out of her ears," said Mr. Fox-Cotton. I haven't the faintest idea what Surrealism is, but I can easily imagine snakes in Mrs. F-C's ears-and I certainly shouldn't blame them for coming

out.

After that, it was decided that we should dance.

"In the hall," said Neil, "because the Victrola's down there." Mrs.

Cotton and Father and the Vicar stayed behind talking.

"We shall be one man short," complained Mrs.

Fox-Cotton as we went downstairs.

I said I would watch as I don't know modern dances. (neither does

Rose, really, but she did try them once or twice at Aunt Millicent's

parties.) "What kind do you know ?" asked Simon, teasingly.

"Sarabandes, cour antes and pa vanes ?"

I told him just waltzes and polkas.

Mother showed us those when we were little.

"I'll teach you," said Neil. He put a record on the gramophone- I had expected a Victrola to be something much more exciting- and then came back to me, but I said I'd rather watch for the first few dances.

"Oh, come on, Cassandra," he said, but Mrs.

Fox-Cotton butted in.

"Let the child watch if she wants to. Dance this with me." I settled it by running up the stairs.

I sat on the top step looking down on them.

Rose danced with Simon, Topaz with Mr. Fox-Cotton. I must say Mrs.

Fox-Cotton danced beautifully, though she seemed almost to be lying on Neil's chest. Rose's dress looked lovely but she kept on missing

steps. Topaz was holding herself stiff as a poker--she thinks modern

dancing is vulgar--but Mr. Fox-Cotton danced so well that she

gradually relaxed. It was fascinating watching them all from up there.

The hall was very dimly lit, the oak floor looked dark as water by

night.

I noticed the mysterious old-house smell again but mixed with Mrs.

Fox-Cotton's scent--a rich, mysterious scent, not a bit like flowers.

I leaned against the carved banisters and listened to the music and

felt quite different from any way I have ever felt before -softer, very beautiful and as if a great many men were in love with me and I might very easily be in love with them. I had the most curious feeling in my solar plexus--a vulnerable feeling is the nearest I can get to it; I

was investigating it in a pleasant, hazy sort of way, staring down at a big bowl of white tulips against the uncurtained great window, when all of a sudden I went quite cold with shock.

There were two faces floating in the black glass of the window.

The next instant they were gone. I strained my eyes to see them again.

The dancers kept passing the window, hiding it from me.

Suddenly the faces were back, but grown fainter.

They grew clear again- and just then the record finished. The dancers stopped, the faces vanished.

Aubrey Fox-Cotton shouted: "Did you see that, Simon? Two of the

villagers staring in again."

"That's the worst of a right-of-way so close to the house," Simon explained to Rose.

"Oh, hell, what does it matter?" said Neil.

"Let them watch if they want to."

"But it startled Mother badly the other night. I think I'll just ask them not to, if I can catch them."

Simon went to the door and opened it. I ran full tilt down the stairs, and across to him. There was a light above the door which made

everything seem pitch black beyond.

"Don't catch them," I whispered.

He smiled down at me in astonishment.

"Good heavens, I'm not going to hurt them." He went down the steps and shouted: "Anyone there ?"

There was a stifled laugh quite close.

"They're behind the cedar," said Simon and started to walk towards it.

I was praying they would bolt but no sound of it came.

I grabbed Simon's arm and whispered: "Please come back--please say you couldn't find them. It's Thomas and Stephen."

Simon let out a snort of laughter.

"They must have cycled over," I said.

"Please don't be annoyed.

It's just that they hankered to see the fun."

He called out: "Thomas, Stephen- where are you his Come in and talk to us."

They didn't answer. We walked towards the cedar.

Suddenly they made a dash for it--and Thomas promptly tripped over

something and fell full length. I called: "Come on, both of you-it's perfectly all right," Simon went to help Thomas up-I knew he wasn't hurt because he was laughing so much. My eyes were used to the

darkness by then and I could see Stephen some yards away; he had

stopped but he wasn't coming towards us. I went over and took him by

the hand.

"I'm so dreadfully sorry," he whispered.

"I

know it was a terrible thing to do."

"Nonsense," I said.

"Nobody minds a bit."

His hand was quite damp. I was sure he was feeling awful.

The others had heard the shouts and come to the door.

Neil came running out to us with a torch.

"What, my old friend Stephen?" he cried.

"Are there any bears abroad tonight?"

"I don't want to come in--please!" Stephen whispered to me. But Neil and I took an arm each and made him.

Thomas wasn't minding at all--he kept choking with laughter.

"We had a squint at you at dinner," he said, "and then you all disappeared.

We were just about to go home in despair when you came downstairs."

Once I saw Stephen clearly, in the hall, I was sorry I had made him

come in- he was scarlet to his forehead and too shy to speak a word.

And Rose made things worse by saying affectedly (i think it was due to embarrassment) : "I do apologize for them. They ought to be ashamed of themselves."

"Don't mind your Great-Aunt Rose, boys," said Neil, with a grin.

"Come on, we'll go and raid the icebox."

I once saw them do that on the pictures and it looked marvelous.

I thought I would go along, too, but Mrs.

Fox-Cotton called me back.

"Who's that boy, the tall fair one ?" she demanded.

I told her about Stephen.

She said, "I must photograph him."

"What, at this time of night ?"

She gave a whinnying little laugh.

"Of course not, you silly child.

He must come up to London- I'm a professional photographer.

Look here, ask him--No, don't bother." She ran upstairs.

Neil and the boys had disappeared by then. I was sorry, because I was quite a bit hungry, in spite of the enormous dinner; I suppose my

stomach had got into practice. I feared that if I hung about, Simon

might feel he ought to dance with me--he was dancing with Rose again

and I wanted him to go on. So I went upstairs.

It was pleasant being by myself in the house--one gets the feel of a

house much better alone. I went very slowly, looking at the old prints on the walls of the passages. Everywhere at Scoatney one feels so

conscious of the past; it is like a presence, a caress in the air. I

don't often get that feeling at the castle; perhaps it has been altered too much, and the oldest parts seem so utterly remote. Probably the

beautiful, undisturbed furniture helps at Scoatney.

I expected to hear voices to guide me back to the gallery but every

thing was quiet. At last I came to a window open on to the courtyard

and leaned out and got my bearings--I could see the gallery windows. I could see the kitchen windows, too, and Neil and Thomas and Stephen

eating at the table. It did look fun.

When I went into the gallery, Father and Mrs.

Cotton were at the far end and the Vicar was lying on the sofa by the middle fire place reading Mrs. Fox-Cotton's book. I told him about

Thomas and Stephen.

"Let's go and talk to them," he said, "unless you want me to dance with you. I dance like an india-rubber ball."

I said I should like to see the kitchens. He got up, closing the

book.

"Mrs. Fox-Cotton said that was no book for little girls," I told him.

"It's no book for little vicars," he said, chuckling.

He took me down by the back stairs- he knows the house well, as he was very friendly with old Mr. Cotton. It was interesting to notice the

difference once we got into the servants' quarters; the carpets were

thin and worn, the lighting was harsh, it felt much colder. The smell was different, too--just as old but with no mellowness in it; a stale, damp, dispiriting smell.

But the kitchens were beautiful when we got to them- all painted white, with a white enamelled stove and the hugest refrigerator.

(aunt Millicent only had an old one which dribbled.) Neil and the boys were still eating. And sitting on the table, talking hard to Stephen, was Mrs. Fox-Cotton.

As I came in, she was handing him a card. I heard her say:

"All you have to do is to give that address to the taxi-driver. I'll pay your fare when you get there--or perhaps I'd better give you some money now." She opened her evening bag.

"Are you really going to be photographed?" I asked him. He shook his head and showed me the card. It had LA.

AR-ATSR

VHO-A'OGV-NZR on it, under a beautifully drawn little swan, and an

address in St. John's Wood.

"Be a nice child and help me to persuade him," she said.

"He can come on a Sunday. I'll pay his fare and give him two guineas.

He's exactly what I've been looking for for months."

"No, thank you, ma'am," said Stephen, very politely.

"I'd be embarrassed."

"Heavens, what's there to be embarrassed about his I only want to photograph your head. Would you do it for three guineas ?"

"What, for just one day ?"

She gave him a shrewd little look; then said quickly:

"Five guineas if you come next Sunday."

"Don't do it if you don't want to, Stephen," I said.

He swallowed and thought. At last he said: "I'll have to think it over, ma'am. Would it be five guineas if I came a little later ?"

"Any Sunday you like- I can always use you. Only write in advance to make sure I shall be free. You write for him," she added, to me.

"He'll write himself if he wants to," I said coldly--she sounded as if she thought he was illiterate.

"Well, don't you go putting him off. Five guineas, Stephen. And I probably won't need you for more than two or three hours."

She grabbed a wing of chicken and sat there gnawing it.

Neil offered me some, but my appetite had gone off.

Stephen said it was time he and Thomas rode home.

Neil asked them to stay on and dance, but didn't press it when he saw Stephen didn't want to. We all went to see them off-the bicycles were somewhere at the back of the house. On the way, we passed through a

storeroom where enormous hams were hanging.

"Old Mr. Cotton sent us one of those every Christmas," said Thomas.

"Only he was dead last Christmas."

Neil reached up and took the largest ham off its hook.

"There you are, Tommy," he said.

"Oh, Thomas, you can't!" I began--but I didn't want Neil to call me Great-Aunt Cassandra so I finished up: "Well, I suppose you have." And I certainly would have fainted with despair if Thomas had refused the ham. In the end, I undertook to bring it home because he couldn't

manage it on his bicycle.

"But swear you won't go all ladylike and leave it behind," he whispered. I swore.

After the boys had gone we went back to the hall and found the others still dancing.

"Come on, Cassandra," said Neil, and whirled me off.

Dear me, dancing is peculiar when you really think about it. If a man held your hand and put his arm round your waist without its being

dancing, it would be most important; in dancing, you don't even notice it--well, only a little bit. I managed to follow the steps better than I expected, but not easily enough to enjoy myself; I was quite glad

when the record ended.

Neil asked Rose to dance then, and I had a glorious waltz with the

Vicar; we got so dizzy that we had to flop on a sofa. I don't fancy

Rose followed Neil as well as I had done, because as they passed I

heard him say: "Don't keep on putting in little fancy steps on your own." I guessed that would annoy her and it did; when the music

stopped and he asked her to come out into the garden for some air, she said "No, thanks," almost rudely.

After that, we all went back to the Long Gallery where Father and Mrs.

Cotton were talking as hard as ever.

Mrs. Cotton broke off politely as we went in and the conversation was general for a while; but Mrs. Fox-Cotton kept yawning and patting her mouth and saying "Excuse me"--which only drew more attention to it-and soon Topaz said we ought to be going. Mrs.

Cotton protested courteously, then rang for the car. There was a late feeling about the evening--just as there used to be at children's

parties (the few I ever went to) after the first nurse arrived to take a child home.

I picked up the ham as we went through the hall and tactfully kept it under the wrap Topaz had lent me- it was a most peculiar sort of bur

nous thing but it came in very useful.

Simon and Neil went out to the car with us and said they would come

over and see us when they got back from London- they were driving up

the next day to stay for a fortnight.

And so the party was over.

"Great Heavens, Cassandra, how did you get that?"

said Father when he saw me nursing the ham.

I told him, and explained that I had been hiding it in case he made me refuse it.

"Refuse it his You must be insane, my child." He took it from me to guess how much it weighed. We all guessed--which was a sheer waste of time as we haven't any scales.

"You're nursing it as if it were your first-born child," said Father when it was returned to me eventually.

I said I doubted if anyone's first-born child was ever more welcome.

After that we all fell silent--we had suddenly remembered the

chauffeur.

Even when we got home we didn't all rush to compare notes. I got the

feeling that we all wanted to do a little private thinking. I

certainly did.

I began as soon as Rose and I had blown our bedroom candles out. I

wasn't a bit sleepy. I went through the whole evening- it was almost

nicer than when it was actually happening until I got to the bit in the kitchen, with Mrs. Fox-Cotton asking Stephen to sit for her; I found I was furious about that. I asked myself why- why shouldn't he make five guineas for a few hours' work his Five guineas is a tremendous amount of money. And surely a photographer has every right to engage models

his I decided I was being most unreasonable- but I went on feeling

furious.

While I was still arguing with myself, Rose got out of the four-poster and opened the window wider; then sat on the window-seat.

"Can't you sleep ?" I asked.

She said she hadn't even been trying and I guessed she had been going over the evening just as I had; I wished I could change minds with her for a while and re-live her evening.

I got up and joined her on the window-seat. It was such a dark night

that I could only see the shape of her.

Suddenly she said:

"I wish I knew more about men."

"Why specially ?" I asked, in a quietly encouraging voice. She was silent so long that I thought she wasn't going to answer; then the

words came rushing out:

"He's attracted--I know he is! But he's probably been attracted to lots of girls; it doesn't necessarily mean he's going to propose. IF

only I knew the clever way to behave!"

I said: "Oh, Rose, have you thought what marriage really means ?"

"Yes, I thought tonight-when I looked at him to see if he was like that old painting. I suddenly imagined being in bed with him."

"What a moment to choose for it! I saw you were pretty preoccupied.

Well, how did it feel ?"

"Most peculiar. But I could face it."

"Is it just the money, Rose?"

"I'm not sure," she said, "honestly, I'm not--I don't understand myself. It's terribly exciting feeling men are attracted to you. It's but you couldn't understand."

"I think perhaps I could." For a second I thought of telling her about Stephen, but before I could start she went on:

"I like him- really I do. He's so courteous he the first person who ever made me feel I matter. And he's handsome--in a way, don't you

think his His eyes are, anyway, if I could just get used to the beard-his "Are you sure you wouldn't rather have Neil? He's so very kind and he's got such a nice clean face."

"Oh, Neil!" Her tone was so scornful that I realized he must have annoyed her even more than I had suspected.

"No, you can have Neil."

Honestly, that was the first time the idea had ever occurred to me. Of course I didn't take it seriously--but I felt it deserved a little

quiet thinking about.

"If only I could get Simon to shave," Rose went on. Then her voice went hard.

"Anyway, what does it matter his I'd marry him even if I hated him.

Cassandra, did you ever see anything as beautiful as Mrs. Cotton's

bathroom ?"

"Yes, lots of things," I said firmly.

"And no bathroom on earth will make up for marrying a bearded man you hate."

"But I don't hate him- I tell you I like him. I almost ... was She broke off and went back to bed.

"Perhaps you won't be sure of your feelings until you've let him kiss you," I suggested.

"But I can't do that before he proposes- or he mightn't propose," she said decidedly.

"That's one thing I do know."

I had a strong suspicion she was being a mite old-fashioned, but I kept my views to myself.

"Well, I shall pray you really fall in love with him--and he with you, of course. And I'll do out-of-bed prayers."

"So will I," she said, hopping out again.

We both prayed hard, Rose much the longest--she was still on her knees when I had settled down ready to sleep.

"That'll do, Rose," I told her at last.

"It's enough just to mention things, you know. Long prayers are like nagging."

We were restless for ages. I tried to invent something soothing for

Miss Blossom to say but I wasn't in the mood. After a while I heard an owl hooting and calmed myself by thinking of it flying over the dark

fields-and then I remembered it would be pouncing on mice.

I love owls, but I wish God had made them vegetarian. Rose kept

flinging herself over in bed.

"Oh, do stop walloping about," I said.

"You'll break what few springs the four-poster has left."

But again and again as I was dropping off she did a wallop. Godsend

church clock struck two before I heard her breathing quietly.

Then I got to sleep at last.

IX

It took three days to describe the party at Scoatney-I didn't mark the breaks because I wanted it to seem like one whole chapter. Now that

life has become so much more exciting I think of this journal as a

story I am telling. A new chapter happened yesterday which I long to

dash straight into, but I shall resist the temptation and bring myself up to date first.

One temptation I didn't manage to resist was that of letting my

imagination leap ahead a bit. As Rose had said I could have Neil, I

let myself just toy with the idea; I thought about it when I woke up

the day after the party and imagined his proposing--I made it happen in the water-garden at Scoatney. I accepted him and Rose and I arranged

to have a double wedding, and bought the most superb trousseaux. Then I dozed off again and dreamt I really was married to Neil. We were

shut up together in Mrs.

Cotton's bathroom in a terribly embarrassing way and Stephen's face

kept floating in the looking-glass walls. I was very glad to wake up

and find it wasn't true. Of course Neil never will propose to me now

that I have let myself imagine it. Not that I mind.

I suppose he just might--in a completely different way, and not in the water-garden.

Topaz and I had a good gossip about the party while we made the beds.

She was more and more hopeful for Rose, but depressed about Father--he had snubbed her when she asked him what he and Mrs. Cotton had talked about.

"All I got out of him was "Don't be a fool, my dear--how can one repeat the details of a conversation his She's a 'highly intelligent woman and she can listen as well as she can talk."

And then what do you think he said his That he'd placed her wrongly

--her knowledge of literature wasn't at all superficial; she's very

widely read.

"It just shows," he told me, "that one shouldn't generalize about nations on the strength of a brief acquaintance"--and you'd have thought from his tone that I'd been doing the generalizing."

"How very annoying," I said, trying not to laugh--I was so tickled that Father had taken to heart Mrs.

Cotton's little snub about generalizing.

"Anyway, how is it he can discuss literature with her and not with me?

I'm always trying to talk to him about books, but he never lets me."

I blame Father for lots of things but not for that--because it really is agony to talk to her about books. When I was longing for a calm

discussion of Tolstoy's War and Peace, she said "Ah, it's the

overlapping dimensions that are so wonderful. I tried to paint it

once, on a circular canvas"--and then she couldn't remember who Natasha was.

I was most sympathetic with her over Father, but rather quick about it, because I wanted to write my journal. I only managed an hour before

lunch but was able to work all afternoon, up in the attic. Stephen

came to me there when he got back from Four Stones.

My heart sank as he held out a folded paper-I had been hoping he had

outgrown bringing me poems. He stood waiting for me to read it.

After the first line I realized that it was his own work this time-it was about me, sitting on the stairs at Scoatney while the others

danced. I was wondering what I could say about it, when he snatched it away and tore it up.

"I know it's dreadful," he said.

I told him it wasn't dreadful at all.

"Some of it rhymed splendidly, Stephen. And it's your very own. I like it much better than the ones you copied out." I felt it was an opportunity to stop him copying again.

"I didn't exactly copy them," he said, not looking at me.

"I always changed words in them. I didn't mean to be dishonest,

Cassandra- it was just that nothing of my own seemed good enough."

I said I understood perfectly but he must always write his own poems in future. And I advised him not even to imitate other people's poems.

"I know you made up every word of this last one," I told him, "but it was still a bit like Herrick- all that part about lilies and roses and violets. You didn't really see them in the hall last night there were only white tulips."

"I bet Herrick didn't see all the flowers he wrote about," said Stephen, grinning.

"And the only rhyme I could find for tulips was "blue lips."" I laughed and told him there were more important things than rhymes--"Lots of good poetry doesn't have them at all. The main thing is to write what you really feel."

"Oh, I couldn't do that," he said.

"No, that would never do."

"But why not, Stephen his Of course it would do."

"No, it wouldn't," he said, and smiled straight in front of him as if he were thinking of some private joke. It reminded me of that evening months ago when we were putting saucepans under the drips--he had

smiled in just the same private way.

"Stephen," I said, "do you remember-why, it was the very night the Cottons first came here! Do you remember looking out of this window

and saying: "Beginnings are good times"?"

He nodded.

"But I wasn't expecting any Cottons," he said, glumly.

"Did you dance with them last night ?"

"I tried once with Neil."

"People look awful dancing--I'd be ashamed. You'd never do it like that one who calls herself Leda, would you ?"

"I'd never dance so well," I said.

"But I know what you mean.

She does rather drape herself over her partners, doesn't she? You

aren't going to let her photograph you, are you?"

I said it most casually, not as if I minded at all. To my surprise, he put on his wooden look- which is quite different from his daft look.

The daft look is hazy, dreamy; the wooden look is obstinate to the

point of sulkiness. It is a look he gives Rose sometimes, but I

couldn't remember his ever turning it on me.

"I might," he said.

"If people want to throw their money about."

"But surely you'd hate it, Stephen ?"

"It might be worth hating it to earn five guineas.

Five guineas would be almost enough" he broke off and turned away to go downstairs.

"Enough for what ?" I called after him.

"Oh for- for lots of things," he said, without turning round.

"Five guineas is more than I can save in a year."

"But you were so sure you wouldn't do it last night."

He looked back as he went round the curve of the little attic

staircase, his head just above the level of the floor.

"P'raps I will, p'raps I won't," he said maddeningly and went on down.

A voice in my head said "I'm damned if you're going to sit for Leda Fox-Cotton." Then the bell rang for tea so I followed him down.

Topaz had boiled half the ham. She said it would go further if we

didn't cut it until it was quite cold, but Thomas insisted he has been very possessive about that ham. We all fanned it with newspapers until the last moment. It was wonderful, of course ham with mustard is a

meal of glory.

Miss Marcy came after tea, to hear all about the party. She told me

Mrs. Fox-Cotton's photographs are very well known; they get reproduced in magazines. She particularly remembered one of a girl hiding behind a giant shell with the shadow of a man coming towards her.

"And one got the impression that he was wearing-well, nothing, which surprised me rather because one doesn't often see photographs being as artistic as paintings, does one his But there, he probably had a

bathing suit on all the time it would hardly show on a shadow, would it

?"

I laughed I do adore darling Miss Marcy. But I was all the more

determined Stephen shouldn't go near the Fox-Cotton woman.

The next morning Topaz, Rose and I went into King's Crypt with the

twenty pounds the Vicar gave for the collie dog rug and bought my first grown-up dress--pale green linen;

Rose had a pink one. Topaz said she didn't need anything herself--and anyway, she looks most unnatural in ready made clothes. I got some

white shoes and a pair of practically silk stockings. If anyone asked me to a garden-party I could go.

When we got home we found Father hadn't eaten the lunch Topaz had left for him and wasn't anywhere in the castle. He turned up about nine

o'clock and said he had bicycled over to Scoatney--apparently Simon had given him the run of the library while they were away. I asked if he

had read anything particularly interesting.

"Oh, mostly American magazines--and some critical essays," he said.

"I'd forgotten how advanced American criticism is."

Topaz said she would get him a meal, but he told her he'd had luncheon and dinner.

"It seems Mrs. Cotton left instructions that I'm to be fed when I go there." He went off to the gatehouse looking rather smug.

I retired to the attic and went on with this journal.

When I came down to the kitchen again Stephen was writing on an

opened-out sugar bag. He went scarlet when he saw me and crumpled the sugar bag up. Just then Topaz came in from the garden wearing Aunt

Millicent's black cloak and no stockings or shoes. I guessed she'd had one of her nude sessions.

"Thank heaven Nature never fails me," she said as she stumped upstairs.

When I turned round Stephen was poking the sugar bag down into the

fire.

"Was it another poem ?" I asked- I feel I ought to encourage him now he is writing his own poems.

"Why did you burn it ?"

"Because it wouldn't do at all," he said, still very red in the face.

He stared at me for a second, then suddenly dashed out into the garden.

I waited for him, sitting by the fire with About and Hcl, but he didn't come back.

When I went upstairs, Rose was sitting up in bed varnishing her nails; the varnish had been her special treat out of the Vicar's money --I

had lavender soap.

"You're using that too soon," I said.

"The Cottons won't be back for twelve days yet."

Little did I think we should see them again in only four days.

Yesterday was the first of May. I love the special days of the

year-St. Valentine's, Hallowe'en; Midsummer Eve most of all. A May

Day that feels as it sounds is rare and, when I leaned out of the

bedroom window watching the moat ruffled into sparkles by a warm

breeze, I was as happy as I have ever been in my life. I knew it was

going to be a lucky day.

It certainly made a false start before breakfast.

Father came down in his best dark suit that he hasn't worn for years.

Rose and I gaped at him, and Topaz stopped stirring the porridge to

say: "Mortmain-what on earth--?"

"I'm going up to London," said Father, shortly.

"What for?" we all said together; which made it rather loud.

"Business," said Father, even louder, and went out of the kitchen banging the door.

"Don't worry him, don't ask questions," whispered Topaz. Then she turned to me, looking miserable.

"Do you think he's going to see her-Mrs. Cotton?"

"Surely he couldn't--not without being asked," I said.

"Oh, yes he could," said Rose.

"Look at him, going to Scoatney three days running, letting the

servants feed him grubbing about in the books and magazines! I tell

you he'll end by putting them off ."

"It wasn't him who put them off us last time," said Topaz, angrily.

I saw there were going to be high words so I went through into the

drawing-room. Father was sitting on the window-seat polishing his

shoes with the curtain. When he got up he was covered with Heloise's

white hairs from the seat-pad.

"Is there no place a man in a dark suit can sit in this house?" he shouted as he went to the hall for the clothes-brush.

"Not unless we dye Hcl black," I said. I brushed him; but what with the brush having lost most of its bristles, his suit having lost most of its nap and Heloise having lost more hairs than seemed believable, the result was poor. Topaz came to say that breakfast was ready, but

he said he would miss his train if he waited for it.

"Don't fuss don't fuss," he said when she begged him to have just something. Then he pushed past her in the rudest way and grabbed

Rose's bicycle because his own had a flat tyre.

"When will you be back ?" Topaz called after him.

He yelled over his shoulder that he hadn't the faintest idea.

"What is the matter with him ?" said Topaz as we walked back across the garden.

"I know he's always been moody but not bad-tempered like this. It's been getting worse ever since we went to Scoatney."

"Perhaps it's better than heavy resignation," I suggested, trying to be comforting.

"He was shockingly bad-tempered when we were little- when he was writing. You know about Mother and the cake knife

Topaz looked suddenly hopeful.

"He can massacre me if it'll really help him," she said. Then the light died out of her eyes.

"But I'm no good to him. It's that woman who's started him."

"Gracious, we don't know if anything's started him," I said.

"We've had so many false alarms. Where did he get the money to go to London ?"

She said she had given him five pounds of the Vicar's rug money.

"Though I didn't think he'd spend it on seeing her." Then she added nobly: "I suppose I oughtn't even to mind that, if she stimulates him."

Rose came out of the kitchen with a slice of bread and jam, and passed us without a word--I gathered she and Topaz had had a very sharp row

while I was brushing Father. We found that the porridge was

burnt--than which there can be few less pleasing forms of food; and

what with this and Topaz's mood of gloom, we had a depressing meal.

(the boys, of course, had gone off earlier;

after a hammy breakfast.) "I shall go and dig until I find peace," said Topaz, when we had done the washing-up and made the beds.

I felt she would find it better alone and I wanted to write in my

journal; I had finished the evening at Scoatney but there were some

reflections about life I wanted to record. (i never did record them

and have now forgotten what they were.) As I settled myself down on

Belmotte mound, I saw Rose going along the lane with Mrs.

Stebbins's crinoline; Stephen had brought word that the old lady was

fretting for it. He had refused to take it back for Rose because he

said he'd feel embarrassed. Rose had it over her shoulder; she did

look peculiar.

I decided to think a little before I began writing, and lay back

enjoying the heat of the sun and staring up at the great blue bowl of the sky. It was lovely feeling the warm earth under me and the

springing grass against the palms of my hands while my mind was drawn upwards. Unfortunately my thoughts will never stay exalted for very

long, and soon I was gloating over my new green dress and wondering if it would suit me to curl my hair. I closed my eyes, as I usually do

when I am thinking very hard. Gradually I slid into imagining Rose

married to Simon--it doesn't seem to matter when you imagine about

other people, it only stops things happening when you do it about

yourself. I gave Rose a lovely wedding and got to where she was alone with Simon at a Paris hotel--she was a little frightened of him, but I made her enjoy that.

He was looking at her the way he did at dinner when he raised his glass to I opened my eyes. He was there, the real Simon Cotton, looking at

me.

I hadn't heard a sound. One second I had seen him in the Paris hotel, brilliantly clear yet somehow tiny and far away, rather as one sees

things in a convex mirror; the next instant he was like a giant against the sky. I had been lying with the sun on my eyelids so that for a

minute nothing was the right color. The grass and sky were bleached

and his face looked ashen. But his beard was still black.

"Did I startle you?" he asked, smiling.

"I had a bet with myself I'd get up the hill without your hearing.

Oh--you weren't asleep, were you ?"

"Not quite so early in the day," I said, sitting up blinking. He sat down beside me. It was the queerest feeling--changing the man I had

imagined to the real man. I had made him so fascinating, and of course he isn't really- though very, very nice; I know that now.

He and Neil had driven down just for the day; Neil had dropped him at the end of our lane and gone on to Scoatney -which sounded as if he

weren't very interested in us.

"I'm sorry to have missed your sister," said Simon, "but Mrs. Mortmain hopes she'll be back soon."

I said I was sure she would, though I really thought she would be gone at least an hour, and wondered if I could be interesting enough to

keep him talking as long as that. I asked him if they were having a

good time in London.

"Oh, yes--I love London. But it seems a waste not to be here in this weather." He leaned back on his elbow, gazing across the fields.

"I never knew the English spring could be so dazzling."

I said it astonished one every year.

"Well, after next week we'll be back here for some time--that is, Neil and I will; Mother's absorbed in her new apartment--flat, as I keep

forgetting to call it. Leda and Aubrey are helping her to choose the

furniture. Oh, that reminds me"--he took an envelope from his

pocket--"I ought to have left this at the castle.

It's for that nice boy Stephen; his fare to London, from Leda."

"I'll give it to him," I said. I wondered if Stephen had written saying he could go, or if she had just sent the money to tempt him.

Simon handed me the envelope.

"Tell me about him," he said.

"How does he come to speak so differently from the other village boys

?"

Of course Stephen speaks just as we do--except that he chooses rather humble words. I explained about him.

"I wonder what he'll make of Leda," said Simon.

"She wants to pose him with some casts of Greek sculpture.

She'll have him in a tunic if he's not careful, or out of it. He

certainly has a marvelous head--perhaps he'll end in Hollywood."

I shut the envelope in my journal so that it wouldn't blow away.

"What's that? Lessons ?" asked Simon.

"Heavens, no, I left school long ago."

"I do apologize," he said, laughing.

"I still think of you as that little girl in the bath. Is it a story his Read me a bit."

I told him it was my journal and that I had just finished the party at Scoatney.

"Do I come in it his I'll give you a box of candy if you'll let me read a page."

"All right," I said.

He grabbed the exercise book. After a second or two he looked up from it.

"You've swindled me. Is it your own private code ?"

"More or less--though it did begin as real speed-writing. It changed by degrees. And I got it smaller and smaller, so as not to waste

paper."

He turned the pages and guessed a word here and there but I could see I was safe. After a minute or two he said:

"I was reading the journal in Jacob Wrestling again yesterday-I

happened to pick up a first edition. It's odd to remember how obscure I found that part when I read it at sixteen. By the time I came to do it in college it seemed perfectly intelligible."

"The only part that still puzzles me is the ladder chapter--you know, where it's printed so that it actually looks like a ladder, with a

sentence for every rung. Father won't answer questions about that."

"Maybe he can't. I've always believed it's the description of some mystical experience. Of course you know the theory that each rung

leads to the next, even though the sentences seem so unconnected?"

"Indeed I don't," I said.

"Dear me, it's so extraordinary to hear of people having theories about Father's work and studying it in college thousands of miles away. It

must be more important than we realize."

"Well, it's one of the forerunners of postwar literature. And your Father's a link in the chain of writers who have been obsessed by

form. If only he'd carried his methods further!"

"But didn't you say he couldn't? That Jacob Wrestling was corn

complete in itself, as far as he was concerned--that it couldn't have a successor ?"

He looked at me quickly.

"Fancy your remembering that! Do you know, I'm ashamed to say that didn't mean very much it was an effort to be tactful when I knew I'd

put my foot in it."

I told him I'd guessed that, which made him laugh.

"You nasty noticing child! But I don't think your father spotted me.

And in one way, what I said's true, you know --he can't exactly develop his Jacob Wrestling method, because other writers have gone far ahead of him on rather similar lines;

James Joyce, for instance.

He'd have to take an enormous jump over intervening work and he hasn't even kept in touch with it.

I wonder if that could be what's stopping him writing, that the next

rung of the ladder-since we're talking of ladders- has been used by

others. How's that for a theory? Or am I just trying to rationalize

my phoniness that first evening ?"

"Well, it's a nice change from the theory that he can't write because he went to jail," I said.

"That's fantastic, of course--why, the reports of the case read like something in Gilbert and Sullivan. And Mother says his description of his life in prison was even funnier."

"You mean he actually told her ?" I gasped never have I heard him mention one word about his life in prison.

"She asked him point-blank- I must say I wouldn't have dared.

She says he looked for a second as if he were going to strike her and then launched cheerfully into a half-hour monologue. Oh, I'm sure

prison isn't the root of the trouble."

I said I had never believed it myself.

"But it is queer that he's never written a thing since he came out."

"It certainly is. Of course he ought to be psychoanalyzed."

I suppose no normally intelligent person living in the

nineteen-thirties can fail to have some faint inkling of what

psychoanalysis is, but there are few things about which I know less. I asked Simon to explain it to me.

"Good Lord, that's a tall order," he said, laughing.

"And I've only the haziest layman's idea of it myself. But let's see, now: I think a psychoanalyst would say the trouble lay much further

back than those few months in prison--but that prison might have

brought it to the surface. He'd certainly explore that period

thoroughly-make your Father remember every detail of it; in a way, he'd have to be put back in prison."

"You don't mean physically ?"

"No, of course not. Though--let me think now-yes, I suppose it's just conceivable that if the trouble did arise in prison, another period of imprisonment might resolve it. But it's very farfetched-and quite

unworkable anyhow, because if he consented to imprisonment, he wouldn't really feel imprisoned; and no psychoanalyst would dare to imprison him without his consent."

"No psychoanalyst would ever get within miles of him. The very mention of psychoanalysis always annoys him--he says it's all rubbish."

"Well, it sometimes is," said Simon, "but not always. The fact that he's prejudiced against it might be symptomatic. By the way, I suppose you're sure he isn't working on something secretly ?"

"I don't see how he could be--we can see right into the gatehouse, there are windows back and front, and he hardly goes near his desk. He just sits reading his old detective stories. He did raise our hopes a few weeks ago- Topaz saw him writing. But it turned out to be a

crossword puzzle."

"He's rather like a detective story himself," said Simon, ""The Case of the Buried Talent." I wish I could solve it. I'd so much like to write about him."

I hadn't known that he wrote. I asked what sort of things.

"Oh, critical essays, mostly- just spare-time work. I've only had a few things published. Your Father'd be a superb subject--if I could

find out what monkey-wrench got thrown into his works."

"It would be even better if you could get the monkey-wrench out," I said.

"Well, finding it's the first step." He lay back on the grass with his eyes closed, thinking. I took the opportunity to have a good look at

him. It was queer to notice how young his skin looked, contrasted with the beard. I had been liking him better and better all the time we had been talking and I was planning to tell Rose encouraging things about him. I was glad to see that he has nice ears, because she values good ears. People do look different with their eyes closed, their features seem so much more sculptured. Simon's mouth is very sculptured- an

interesting mouth. I heard myself telling Rose: "Do you know, I think he might be quite an exciting sort of man ?"

Just then he opened his eyes and said: "You don't like it, do you?"

I felt myself blushing.

"Like what?" I said.

"My beard," said Simon.

"You were wondering how any man could wear one unless, of course, it has acquired a fascination of horror for you. Which is it?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm getting used to x."...."

He laughed and said that was the ultimate humiliation -every one did.

"Everyone except me," he added.

"I

never see myself in a glass without feeling astonished."

"Would it be rude to ask just why you do wear it?"

"It would be natural, anyway. I grew it when I was twenty-two, for a bet, and then kept it out of sheer pigheadedness-it looked so

wonderfully unsuitable for a Wall Street office; I was with a cousin of my Mother's there and our dislike was mutual.

And I think I felt a beard kept me in touch with literature. But it

probably has some deep psychological significance--I expect I'm trying to hide an infamous nature from the world."

"Well, it's quite the nicest beard I ever saw," I said.

"Do you think you'll ever get rid of it?"

For some reason, that made him laugh. Then he said:

"Oh, in ten or twelve years, perhaps--say when I'm forty.

It'll be so useful to come down without it one morning, looking twenty years younger.

Does your sister hate it ?"

I wondered if I said "Yes," whether he would shave it off to please Rose. And I suddenly wasn't sure that I wanted it to go.

"You must ask her yourself," I said, laughing.

He looked at his watch and said he was afraid he couldn't wait any

longer for her.

"Neil's picking me up at the Godsend inn at a quarter after twelve. Be a nice companionable child and walk to the village with me."

He got up and held out his hand to pull me to my feet. Then he looked up at Belmotte Tower.

"I meant to ask you to show me over that," he said, "but there's no time now. It's more impressive than ever, at close quarters."

"Have you got used to it belonging to you yet ?" I asked.

"But it doesn't--well, not for a little matter of around thirty years.

Anyway, it takes me all my time to realize that Scoatney does."

As we walked down the mound I told him how I had imagined his first

glimpse of Scoatney, that night back in March.

"Large as it is, it had shrunk," he said.

"Do you mean you'd seen it before ?"

"Oh, yes, when I was seven. Father brought me over with him when he patched up the row with my grandfather--which unfortunately, broke out again when Father became an American citizen."

"Did you know Scoatney was going to be yours then ?"

"Good Lord, no--there were six lives between me and it.

And I loved it with a most precocious passion. I remember standing at the top of the staircase looking down on my grandfather, my father and uncles, and a cousin of my own age all at tea in the hall, and

thinking: "If they were all dead, Scoatney would belong to me."

And then rushing screaming to the nursery, appalled at my wickedness. I sometimes think I ill-wished all my relations then."

"It'd be a powerful lot of ill-wishing for a child of seven," I said.

I tried to imagine him, very small and dark, on the Scoatney stairs

where I sat watching the dancing.

"My grandfather called me "the little Yankee" which infuriated me. But I thought he was wonderful. I wish I could have seen him again before he died--perhaps I oughtn't to have waited until he agreed to it, but I didn't like to force myself on him."

Then he told me that the position had been particularly difficult

because he had never been sure if old Mr.

Cotton would leave him enough money to keep Scoatney up- the estate is entailed but the money isn't, and without it Simon would just have had to lease the house and stay in America.

"It must have been very mixing for you," I said, "not knowing whether to settle down there or fix your mind on England."

"You're dead right it was mixing--sometimes I think I shall never get un-mixed. Oh, I shall strike roots here eventually, I guess.

But I wish I could have known when I stood on those stairs."

We had come to the stile leading to the lane. He sat on the top rail

for a moment, looking at the barn.

"That's magnificent," he said.

"Wonderful old timbers. Oughtn't I to repair the roof his I'd like to be a good landlord."

I said that was our job, as we have the castle on a repairing lease.

Then we caught each other's eyes and burst out laughing.

"You won't count on us doing it this year ?" I added.

He helped me over the stile, still laughing.

Then he said:

"Listen, Cassandra, there's something I want your father to know and I don't like to tell him myself. Can you make him understand that I

don't mind at all about the rent, that I shall never mind, even if he doesn't pay a cent for the rest of his lease his I'd like him to know that I'm honoured to feel he's my tenant."

"I'd call him more of a guest than a tenant," I said, and we both laughed again. Then I thanked him and promised to tell Father.

"Do it tactfully, won't you? Don't let me sound gracious and

patronizing."

"But I do think you're gracious--the right kind of gracious.

There's a right kind of patronage, too, you know.

Perhaps Father'll dedicate his next book to you as its "only

begetter."" "What a nice child you are," he said quietly.

"Not too consciously naive?"

I swear that I said it without thinking--it just leapt from my mouth.

It was looking at the barn did it--while we talked I had been

remembering that day, gloating over the way things had changed.

His head jerked round.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing in particular," I said, lamely.

"I daresay some people think I am."

We were passing the barn. And that minute Heloise put her head out

from where I sat listening that day, and let forth a volley of barks-

she takes naps on the chaff with one ear well open for rats.

"Were you up there ?" said Simon.

I nodded. We were both of us very red.

"How much did you hear?"

"Just that, about me."

Heloise came dashing out of the barn still barking, which I hoped would mean the end of the subject; and stooping to pat her was a good way to avoid his eyes. But she instantly stopped barking, and then he bent

down and patted her, too, looking at me across her.

"I'm so terribly ashamed of myself," he said.

"I

apologize most abjectly."

"Nonsense. It did me a lot of good," I told him.

"That wasn't all that you heard, was it his Did you hear his I didn't let him finish.

"Come on, we'll be late for your brother," I said.

"Just let me get rid of my journal."

I ran off and put it in the barn, taking my time over it; and I talked very determinedly about the weather as I rejoined him.

"It's the loveliest first of May I ever remember," I said, and then made rather a business of calling for Heloise, who had disappeared.

She put her head out of the frothy cow-parsley looking like a bride.

"The country's all dressed in white lace," I said as we walked down the lane.

He was silent so long that I thought he hadn't heard me. Then suddenly he said: "What? Oh, yes--sorry. I was trying to remember what you could have heard me say about Rose."

I tried to think of the most convincing way to reassure him.

"Well, whatever it was, she doesn't know it," I said at last.

I am an honest liar when I take my time; he believed me at once.

"You wonderful child not to tell her."

I heard myself explaining to God as I always do about good, kind,

useful lies. Simon started to tell me why they "got Rose all wrong."

"It's because she's so original," he said.

"Original his Rose ?"

"Why, of course- even the way she dresses.

That frilly pink dress --and borrowing a real crinoline-was "It was--"

I meant to say "It was Topaz who thought of all that," but I stopped in mid-sentence--"pretty, wasn't it?" I finished up.

"Everything about her's pretty." He went on to talk of her for quite a quarter of a mile: how different she was from the average modern

girl--and because of that he hadn't understood her, had thought her

affected--when what she was, of course, was unique.

Everything Rose does is original, apparently, even the way she dances, inventing little steps of her own. And she is so intelligent he kindly said I was, too, but Rose is a wit (a fact not as yet disclosed to her family). As for looks- she'd have been a toast at any period of

history.

I could whole-heartedly agree about the looks. I told him I could

imagine her arriving at Bath with all the bells ringing and Beau Nash welcoming her as the reigning beauty; that fetched him considerably.

Rose lasted us until we were passing the larch wood, when he stopped

and spoke about the greenness of the larches.

"There'll be bluebells in there before long--you can see the shoots now," I told him.

He stood staring into the wood for a minute, then said:

"What is it about the English countryside- why is the beauty so much more than visual? Why does it touch one so?"

He sounded faintly sad. Perhaps he finds beauty saddening--I do myself sometimes. Once when I was quite little I asked Father why this was

and he explained that it was due to our knowledge of beauty's

evanescence, which reminds us that we ourselves shall die.

Then he said I was probably too young to understand him;

but I understood perfectly.

As we walked on, I asked Simon questions about American country and he described some of the old New England villages.

They did sound nice: very trim and white--much more spacious than our villages, with wide streets lined with shady trees. And he told me

about little places on the coast of Maine, where he had spent

vacations. He says "vacations" where we would say "holidays."

Although I still think his voice is like extra-good English, I now

realize that almost every sentence he speaks has some little American twist--"guess" for "suppose, .... maybe" where we use "perhaps," "I've gotten" when we would say "I've got"-oh, there are dozens of words. And he is much more American with me than he is with Father, and very much younger; with Father he chooses his words so correctly that he sounds quite pedantic and middle-aged, but with me he was almost boyish.

"Why, the may's out already," I said, when we came to the

crossroads--the buds on the hedges were tightly closed, but there were dozens of open ones on the tree by the signpost. I set a lot of store by may--I once spent hours trying to describe a single blossom of it, but I only managed "Frank-eyed floweret, kitten-whiskered," which sticks in your throat like fish bones ""The palm and may make country houses gay,"" quoted Simon.

"I think it's that poem that makes me feel the Elizabethans lived in perpetual spring."

Then we remembered the rest of the poem between us and by the time we got to Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street

these tunes our ears do greet M. Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we,

to-witta-woo!

we were into the village.

"Can you hear any birds obliging with those noises ?" I said.

"Let's listen," said Simon.

We listened. We heard:

Somebody hammering, A hen announcing an egg, A cottage wireless saying it was the British Broadcasting Corporation, The pump on the village

green clanking --all rather ugly noises, really, but the church clock striking the quarter somehow drew them together into one pleasant

country sound floating on the light spring air. Then Heloise shattered it all by flapping her ears after rolling on the green.

"And how many things can you smell?" I asked Simon.

We counted up:

Wood smoke, A farm smell coming on puffs of breeze (we subdivided this into:

Straw, hay, horses, clean cows: good Manure, pigs, hens, old cabbages: bad--but not too awful if only in little whiffs), A wonderful pie

cooking somewhere, The sweet, fresh smell which isn't quite flowers or grass or scent of any kind, but just clean country air--one forgets to notice this unless one reminds oneself.

"I wonder how many more things Heloise smells," said Simon.

"Let's see, what could Chesterton's dog Quoodle smell? Water and stone and dew and thunder .. ."

"And Sunday morning--he was so right about that having a smell of its own," said Simon. Oh, it is amicable being with some one who knows the poems you know! I do hope I get Simon for a brother-in-law.

We crossed the green and turned down the short lane that leads to the prettiest bit of Godsend. The church, which is Norman (and a bit of it may be Saxon), stands on one side of the lane between the Queen Anne

vicarage and Miss Marcy's little eighteenth-century schoolhouse; "The Keys" inn is opposite, but because the lane curves just there they all seem part of one group--Topaz says the "composition" is very beautiful.

"The Keys" is painted cream and has very irregular gables; beside it is an enormous chestnut tree--not in bloom yet but its leaves are at their very best, all new and vividly green, with some of the sticky buds

still unopened. There is a bench with a long table against the front

of the inn, partly shaded by the chestnut--and sitting there, with

stone bottles of ginger beer, were Rose and Neil.

It turned out that she had come across the fields from Four Stones to get a cake of scented soap from the post-office shop (topaz is giving us a shilling a week pocket-money while the Vicar's twenty pounds holds out), and had found Neil there buying cigarettes.

"And when I said you'd be along soon, she very obligingly waited," he told Simon. Perhaps I imagined it, but I did think he sounded a bit

satirical.

We sat down, Simon by Rose. Neil asked me what I would have to drink.

I was going to say lemonade and then a wild idea struck me: "Could I have a cherry brandy his I've always wanted to taste it."

"You can't drink liqueurs before lunch," said Rose in a very grown-up way.

"Yes, she can if she wants to," said Neil, going in to the bar. Rose shrugged her shoulders rather histrionically and turned to talk to

Simon. He did look pleased to see her. After a few minutes he

suggested we should all lunch there and called out to Neil to arrange it.

As a rule, Mrs. Jakes only serves bread-and-cheese but she managed

cold sausages as well, and some honey and cake. Neil ate his sausage

with honey, which simply fascinated me-but by then almost everything

was fascinating me. Cherry brandy is wonderful.

But I don't think my haze of content was all due to the cherry

brandy--the glasses are so small. (i had lemonade for my thirst.) It

was everything together that was so pleasant--the food out-of doors the sunshine, the sky through the chestnut tree, Neil being nice to me and Simon being more than nice to Rose;

and, of course, the cherry brandy did help.

While Neil was getting me my second glass I took a good look at Rose.

She was wearing her very oldest dress, a washed-out blue cotton, but it looked exactly right for sitting outside an inn. One branch of the

chestnut came down behind her head and, while I was watching, a strand of her bright hair got caught across a leaf.

"Is that branch worrying you?" Simon asked her.

"Would you like to change places his I hope you wouldn't because your hair looks so nice against the leaves."

I was glad he had been noticing.

Rose said the branch wasn't worrying her in the least.

When Neil came back with my second cherry brandy, she said:

"Well, now that we've finished lunch, I'll have one, too." I knew very well she had been envying mine. Then she called after him:

"No, I won't -- I'll have creme de menthe."

I was surprised, because we both tasted that at Aunt Millicent's once and hated it heartily; but I saw what she was after when she got

it--she kept holding it up so that the green looked beautiful against her hair, though of course it clashed quite dreadfully with the

chestnut leaves.

I must say she was being more affected than I ever saw her, but Simon appeared to be enchanted. Neil didn' the winked at me once and said:

"Your sister'll be wearing that drink as a hat any minute."

Neil is amusing- though it is more the laconic way he says things than what he actually says; sometimes he sounds almost grim and yet you know he is joking. I believe this is called wisecracking.

Rose was right when she said he thinks England is a joke, a comic sort of toy, but I don't believe he despises it, as she feels he does;

it is just that he doesn't take it seriously. I am rather surprised

that Rose resents this so much, because England isn't one of her

special things in the way it is mine-oh, not flags and Kipling and

outposts of Empire and such, but the country and London and houses like Scoatney. Eating bread-and-cheese at an inn felt most beautifully

English- though the liqueurs made it a bit fancy. Mrs. Jakes has had

those two bottles for as long as I can remember, both full to the

top.

We sat talking until the church clock struck two and then the nicest

thing of all happened: Miss Marcy began a singing class. The windows

of the schoolhouse were open and the children's voices came floating

out, very high and clear. They were doing rounds;

first, "My dame hath a lame, tame crane," then "Now Robin lend to me thy bow," and then "Summer is acumin" which is my very favorite tune--when I learnt it at school it was part of a lesson on Chaucer and Langland, and that was one of the few times when I had a flash of being back in the past. While I listened to Miss Marcy's children singing I seemed to capture everything together mediaeval England, myself at ten, the summers of the past and the summer really coming. I can't imagine ever feeling happier than I did for those moments- and while I was

telling myself so, Simon said:

"Did anything as beautiful as this ever happen before ?"

"Let's take the kids some lemonade," said Neil. So we got two dozen bottles and carried them across. Miss Marcy nearly swooned with

delight and introduced Simon to the children as "Squire of Goandend and Scoatney."

"Go on, make a speech- it's expected," I whispered. He took me seriously and gave me an agonized look. Then he told them how much he had enjoyed the singing and that he hoped they would all come to

Scoatney one day and sing for his mother. Everyone applauded except

one very small child who howled and got under her desk- I think she was scared of his beard.

We left after that and the Cottons said they would drive us home.

Neil went to settle with Mrs. Jakes and I routed Heloise out of the

kitchen- she was bloated with sausage. When I came back Simon was

leaning against the chestnut staring at the schoolhouse.

"Will you look at that window ?" he said.

I looked. It is a tallish window with an arched top. On the sill

inside stood a straggly late hyacinth with its white roots growing in water, a jam jar of tadpoles and a hedgehog.

"It'd be nice to paint," I said.

"I was just thinking that. If I were a painter I believe I'd always paint windows."

I looked up at the inn.

"There's another for you," I told him.

Close to the swinging signboard with its crossed gold keys there was a diamond-paned lattice open, showing dark red curtains and a little

sprigged jug and basin, with the brass knob and black rail of an iron bedstead behind. It was wonderfully pain table "Everywhere one

turns--" He stared all around, as if he were trying to memorize

things.

The Vicar's housekeeper drew the blinds down against the sun, so that the vicarage seemed to close its eyes.

(Mrs. Jakes had told us the Vicar was out or we would have called on

him.) Miss Marcy's children were very quietI suppose they were all

guzzling lemonade.

There was a moment of great peace and silence. Then the clock struck

the half-hour, a white pigeon alighted with a great flutter of wings on the inn roof just above the open window; and Neil started the car.

"Don't you think this is beautiful?" Simon asked him, as we went over.

"Yes, pretty as a picture," said Neil, "the kind you get on jigsaw puzzles."

"You're hopeless," I said, laughing. I did know what he meant, of course; but no amount of pretty-pretty pictures can ever really destroy the beauty of villages like Godsend.

Rose went in the back of the car with Simon.

Heloise and I were at the front--part of the time Neil drove with his arm round her.

"Gosh, what sex-appeal she has," he said. Then he told her she was a cute pooch, but would she please not wash his ears his Not that it

stopped her; Heloise can never see a human ear at tongue-level without being a mother to it.

When we got back to the castle I felt it was only polite to ask them

in, but Neil had made an appointment for Simon with the Scoatney agent.

Simon is obviously most anxious to understand everything about the

estate, but I don't think the agricultural side comes naturally to him.

It does to Neil- which seems a waste when he isn't staying in

England.

"Did Simon fix anything about seeing us again ?"

I asked Rose, as we watched them drive away.

"Don't worry, they'll be round." She spoke quite scornfully; I resented it after the Cottons had been so nice to us.

"Very sure of yourself, aren't you ?" I said.

Then something struck me.

"Oh, Rose- you're not still counting it against them- what I overheard them say about you?"

"I am against Neil. He's my enemy." She flung back her head dramatically.

I told her not to be an idiot.

"But he is- he as good as told me so, before you came this morning.

He said he was still hoping Simon would come back to America with

him."

"Well, that doesn't make him your enemy," I said. But I must admit that his manner to her is a bit antagonistic. Of course, owning

Scoatney is really what is likely to keep Simon in England, but I

suppose marrying an English girl would tend to as well.

"Yes, it does- anyway, I hate him. But he shan't, he shan't

interfere."

She was flushed and her eyes had a desperate look--a look that somehow made me ashamed for her.

"Oh, Rose, don't bank on things too much," I begged.

"Simon may not have the faintest idea of proposing-American men are used to being just friends with girls. And they probably think we're

too comic for words--just as Neil thinks the English country "Blast Neil," she cried furiously. I would rather see her furious than

desperate- it made me think of the day she turned on a bull that was

chasing us. (it turned out to be a rather oddly shaped cow.)

Remembering this made me feel very fond of her, so I told her all the nice things Simon had said about her on our walk to Godsend. And I

made her promise never to tell him I had lied to him- even if she

marries him. I should hate him to know, even though I did do it to be kind. Oh, I see more and more I ought never to have let her get it out of me that conversation I over heard. It not only started her off

hating Neil, but has made her extra relentless to Simon--she will marry him or burst.

We found Topaz asleep on the drawing-room window-seat-she looked as if she had been crying, but she woke up quite cheerfully and said our

lunch was in the oven, between plates (we had it for tea). When we

finished telling her about the Cottons, she said:

"How on earth are we to return their hospitality?

I've been wondering ever since we went to Scoatney.

Dinner's impossible-with no dining-room furniture. Could we manage a

picnic lunch?"

"No, we couldn't," said Rose, "we'd only make a mess of it. Leave them alone--let them run after us."

She went off upstairs. Topaz said: "Don't blame her too much the first time girls feel their power it often takes them like that."

Then she yawned so much that I left her to finish her nap.

I got my journal from the barn and remembered Leda Fox Cotton note to Stephen inside. I told myself it was ridiculous to feel resentful and that I wouldn't even mention the note to him I would just leave it

where he would be sure to find it when he came back from work. I

thought he might not want the others to see it I felt Rose was liable to be scornful -so I took it to his room. I couldn't remember being

there since we first explored the castle, when that was the bit of the kitchen where the hen-roosts were; Father turned it into two little

rooms which Stephen and his mother had--her is just a store-room now.

When I opened Stephen's door I was quite shocked at the darkness and

dankness; the narrow window was almost overgrown with ivy and the

whitewash on the walls was discolored and peeling off in flakes. There was a narrow sagging bed, very neatly made, a once-white chest of

drawers with screws sticking out where the handles had come off, and

three hooks on the wall for clothes. On the chest of drawers his comb was placed exactly midway between a photograph of his mother with him as a baby in her arms, and a snapshot of me both in aluminum frames

much too large for them. By the bed was an old wooden box, with a copy of Jacob Wrestling Father gave him years ago on it beside a volume of Swinburne. (oh dear, is Stephen taking to Swinburne?) That was

absolutely all--no carpet, no chair. The room smelt damp and earthy.

It didn't feel like anywhere in the castle as we know it now, but as

the kitchen did when we saw it first, at sunset. I wondered if Stephen was haunted by the ghosts of ancient hens.

I looked at the photograph of Mrs.

Colly for a long time, remembering how kind she was to us in the years after Mother died.

And I remembered going to see her in the Cottage Hospital and then

helping Father to break it to Stephen that she wasn't going to get

better. He just said "That's bad. Thank you, sir. Will that be all now?" and went into his room. After she died, I felt he must be

terribly lonely and I got into the habit of reading to him in the

kitchen every night--I expect I rather fancied myself reading aloud.

It was then that he got fond of poetry. Father married Topaz the year after and in the excitement of it all, my evenings with Stephen

ended--I had forgotten all about them until I stood there looking at

his Mother's photograph. I imagined she was looking at me

reproachfully because I hadn't been kinder to her son and I wondered if I could do anything to improve his bedroom. I could make him some

curtains, if Topaz could ever spare the money for them; but the window with the ivy creeping through is the nicest thing in the room, so it

would be a pity to hide it. And always at the back of my mind I know

it isn't kind to be kind to Stephen; briskness is kindest. I looked

Mrs. Colly in the eye and sent her a message: "I'm doing my

best--really I am."

Then I thought that it would be better for Stephen not to know I had

been in his room--I don't know why, exactly, except that bedrooms are very personal; and he might not like to think I knew what a poor little place it is. I had one last look round. The afternoon sun was

filtering in through the ivy so that everything was bathed in green

light. The clothes hanging on the wall had a tired, almost dead

look.

If I had left the letter, he would have guessed that I had put it

there; so in the end I just gave it to him as soon as he came back

from work. I explained how it had come, in a very casual voice, and

then ran upstairs. He made no comment at all except to thank me. I

still don't know what his plans about London are.

In the evening, while I was working on my journal in the drawing-room, Father walked in--I had been so absorbed that I hadn't heard him arrive home.

"Hello, did your business go well?" I enquired politely.

He said: "Business? What business? I've been to the British Museum."

Then he made a dive at my journal. I pulled it away from him, staring in astonishment.

"Good heavens, I don't want to pry into your secrets," he said.

"I just want to look at your speed-writing. Do me an example, if you prefer it--do "God Save the King. "I thought he might as well see the journal--I chose an un-private page in case he was better at guessing than Simon had been.

He peered down, then pulled the candle closer and asked me to point out the word-symbols.

"There aren't any," I told him.

"It's mostly just abbreviations."

"No good, no good at all," he said impatiently, pushing the exercise book away. Then he marched off to the gatehouse.

I went into the kitchen and found Topaz cutting ham sandwiches for him; she said he hadn't told her one word of what he had been doing all

day.

"Well, he wasn't with Mrs. Cotton, anyway," I said, "because he was at the British Museum."

"As if that proves anything," said Topaz, gloomily.

"People do nothing but use it for assignations--I met him there myself once, in the mummy room."

She went off to the gatehouse with his sandwiches; he had asked her to bring them to him there. When she came back she said:

"Cassandra, he's going out of his mind. He's got a sheet of graph paper pinned to his desk and he told me to ask Thomas to lend him some compasses. And when I told him Thomas was asleep he said:

"Then bring me a goat. Oh, go to bed, go to bed." Heavens, does he really want a goat?"

"Of course not," I said laughing.

"It's just an idiotic association of words--you know, "Goat and Compasses"; they sometimes call inns that. I've heard him make that sort of joke before and very silly I always think it is."

She looked faintly disappointed--I think she had rather fancied hauling some goat in out of the night.

A few minutes later, Father came rampaging into the kitchen saying he must have the compasses even if it meant waking Thomas;

but I crept into his room and managed to sneak them out of his school satchel without disturbing him. Father went off with them.

It was three o'clock before he finally came in from the gatehouse-I

heard Godsend church clock strike just after he wakened Heloise, who

raised the roof. Fancy sitting up until three in the morning playing

with graph paper and compasses! I could hit him!

Oh, I long to blurt out the news in my first paragraph --but I won't!

This is a chance to teach myself the art of suspense.

We didn't hear anything from the Cottons for nearly two weeks after we lunched in the village, but we hardly expected to as they were still in London; and while I was describing that day it was like re-living it, so I was quite contented--and it took me a long time, as Topaz

developed a mania for washing, mending and cleaning, and she needed my help.

I had to do most of my writing in bed at night, which stopped me from encouraging Rose to talk much not that she had shown signs of wanting to, having taken to going for long walks by herself. This desire for

solitude often overcomes her at house-cleaning times.

I finished writing of May Day on the second Saturday after it-and

immediately felt it was time something else happened. I looked across at Rose in the four-poster and asked if she knew exactly when the

Cottons were coming back.

"Oh, they're back now," she said, casually.

She had heard it in Godsend that morning- and kept it to herself.

"Don't count on seeing them too soon," she added.

"Neil will keep Simon away from me as long as he can."

"Rubbish," I said; though I really had come to believe that Neil disliked her. I tried to get her to talk some more--I was ready to

enjoy a little exciting anticipation- but she wasn't forthcoming.

And I quite understood; when things mean a very great deal to you,

exciting anticipation just isn't safe.

The next day, Sunday, something happened to put the Cottons out of my head. When I got down, Topaz told me Stephen had gone off to London.

He hadn't said a word to anyone until she came down to get breakfast

and found him ready to start.

"He was very calm and collected," she said.

"I

asked him if he wasn't afraid of getting lost and he said that if he

did, he'd get a taxi; but he hardly thought he would need to, as Miss Marcy had told him exactly which "buses to take."

I was suddenly furious at his asking Miss Marcy, when he had been so

secretive with us.

"I hate that Fox-Cotton woman," I said.

"Well, I warned him to keep his eyes open," said Topaz.

"And of course, her interest really may be only professional. Though I must say I doubt it."

"Do you mean she might make love to him ?" I gasped- and for the first time really knew just why I minded his going.

"Well, somebody will, sooner or later. But I'd rather it was some nice girl in the village. It's no use looking horrified, Cassandra. You

mustn't be a dog in the manger."

I said I shouldn't mind if it was someone good enough for him.

She stared at me curiously.

"Doesn't he attract you at all his At your age I couldn't have resisted him for a minute--not looks like that.

And it's more than looks, of course."

"Oh, I know he has a splendid character," I said.

"That wasn't what I meant," said Topaz, laughing.

"But I've promised your Father not to put ideas into your head about Stephen, so let's leave it at that."

I knew perfectly well what she had meant. But if Stephen is physically attractive, why don't I get attracted--really attracted?

Or do I his After breakfast, I went to church. The Vicar spotted me

from the pulpit and looked most astonished. He came to talk to me

afterwards, when I was waking Heloise from her nap on one of the oldest tombstones.

"Does this delightful surprise mean you have any particular axe to grind with God?" he enquired. It didn't, of course--though I had taken the opportunity to pray for Rose; I don't believe that church

prayers are particularly efficacious, but one can't waste all that

kneeling on hard hassocks.

"No, I just dropped in," I said lamely.

"Well, come and have a glass of sherry," he suggested, "and see how well the collie dog rug looks on my sofa."

But I told him I had to talk to Miss Marcy, and hurried after her;

seeing her was my real reason for coming, of course.

She obligingly dived straight into the subject to which I had meant to lead up.

"Isn't it splendid about Stephen," she said, blinking delightedly.

"Five guineas for just one day--nearly six, if he saves the money that was sent for taxis! So thoughtful--how kind Mrs.

Fox-Cotton must be!"

I didn't find out anything interesting. Stephen had come to her for a guide to London; there isn't one in the library but she had helped him with advice. When I left her she was still burbling about the

wonderful chance for him, and Mrs.

Fox-Cotton's kindness.

Miss Marcy isn't the woman of the world Topaz and I are.

Stephen didn't come home until late in the evening.

"Well, how did you get on?" asked Topaz-much to my relief because I had made up nay mind not to question him. He said he had taken the

right 'bus and only been lost for a few minutes, while he was looking for the house. Mrs. Fox-Cotton had driven him back to the station and taken him round London on the way.

"She was nice," he added, "she looked quite different--very businesslike, in trousers, like a man. You never saw such a huge great camera as she has."

Topaz asked what he had worn for the photographs.

"A shirt and some corduroy trousers that were there. But she said they looked too new--I'm to wear them for work and then they'll be all right for next time."

"So you're going again." I tried to make it sound very casual.

He said yes, she was going to send for him the next time she had a free Sunday, probably in about a month. Then he told us about the broken

bits of statues he had been photographed with and what ages the

lighting had taken and how he had lunched with Mr. and Mrs.

Fox-Cotton.

"The studio's at the back of their house," he explained.

"You wouldn't believe that house. The carpets feel like moss and the hall has a black marble floor. Mr. Fox-Cotton asked to be remembered

to you, Mrs. Mortmain, ma'am."

He went to wash while Topaz got him some supper.

"It's all right," she said.

"I misjudged the woman."

I talked to him when he came back and everything seemed natural and

easy again. He told me he had wanted to buy me a present but all the

shops were closed, of course.

"All I could get was some chocolate from a slot-machine on the station platform, and I don't suppose it's special London chocolate."

He was too tired to eat much. After he had gone to bed, I thought of

him falling asleep in that dank little room with pictures of the studio and the Fox-Cottons" rich house dancing in front of his eyes.

It was odd to think he had been seeing things I had never seen--it made him seem very separate, somehow, and much more grownup.

Next morning, I had something else to think about.

Two parcels arrived for me! Nobody has sent me a parcel since we

quarreled with Aunt Millicent. (the last one she sent had bed socks in it, most hideous but not to be sneezed at on winter nights. They are

finishing their lives as window-wedges.) I could hardly believe it when I saw my name on labels from two Bond Street shops, and the things

inside were much more unbelievable.

First I unpacked an enormous round box of chocolates and then a

manuscript book bound in pale blue leather, tooled in gold; the

pages--two hundred of them, I counted --have dazzling gilt edges and

there are blue and gold stars on the end papers.

(topaz said it must have cost at least two guineas.) There was no card in either of the parcels, but of course I remembered Simon had promised me a box of "candy" if I let him look at my journal.

And he had sent me a new journal, too!

There was nothing for Rose.

"He can send me presents because he thinks of me as a child," I pointed out.

"He's probably afraid you wouldn't accept them."

"Then he's a pessimist," she said, grinning.

"Well, eat all you can, anyway," I told her.

"You can pay me back when you're engaged--you'll get dozens of boxes then."

She took one, but I could see that it was the idea of owning them that mattered to her, not the chocolates themselves. She didn't eat half as many as Topaz and I did; Rose never was greedy about food.

We had scarcely recovered from the excitement of the parcels when the Scoatney car arrived. Only the chauffeur was in it. He brought a box

of hot-house flowers and a note from Simon asking us all to lunch the next day even Thomas and Stephen. The flowers weren't addressed to

anyone and the note was for Topaz;

she said Simon was being very correct, which was a good sign. She gave the chauffeur a note accepting for all of us but Thomas and Stephen,

and saying she was uncertain about them--she didn't like to refuse for them without knowing how they felt; which was just as well because

Thomas insisted on cutting school and coming.

Stephen said he would sooner die.

I ought to have recorded that second visit to Scoatney immediately

after it happened, but describing May Day had rather exhausted my lust for writing. Now, when I look back, I mostly see the green of the

gardens, where we spent the afternoon- we stayed on for tea.

It was a peaceful, relaxed sort of party-- I never felt one bit

nervous, as I did when we went to dinner. (but the dinner-party was

more thrilling; it glows in my memory like a dark picture with a

luminous centre--candlelight and shining floors and the night pressing against the black windows.) Mrs. Cotton was still away and Simon was

very much the host, rather serious and just a bit stately, talking

mainly to Father and Topaz. Even with Rose he was surprisingly formal, but he was jolly with me. Neil took a lot of trouble with Thomas,

encouraging him to eat a great deal and playing tennis with him Neil

asked Rose and me to play, too, but she didn't want to as she hasn't

had any practice since she left school. So she and I wandered around

on our own and drifted into the biggest greenhouse.

It was lovely moving through the hot, moist, heavily scented air and it felt particularly private--almost as if we were in a separate world

from the others. Rose suddenly said:

"Oh, Cassandra, is it going to happen--is it?"

She looked as she used to on Christmas Eve, when we were hanging up our stockings.

"Are you really sure you want it to ?" I asked --and then decided it was a wasted question when she was so obviously determined.

To my surprise, she considered it a long time, staring out across the lawn to where Simon was talking to Father and Topaz.

A pink camellia fell with a little dead thud.

"Yes, quite sure," she said, at last, with an edge on her voice.

"Up to now, it's been like a tale I've been telling myself. Now it's real.

And it's got to happen. It's got to."

"Well, I feel as if it will," I told her--and I really did. But green-houses always give me a waiting, expectant sort of feeling.

Neil pressed another ham on Thomas and six pots of jam-Father raised a protest but it was very mild; he was in a wonderfully good temper. He borrowed a lot of books from Simon and retired to the gatehouse with

them as soon as we got home.

The next exciting day was when we went for the picnic -they called for us unexpectedly. Father had gone to London again (without any

explanation) and Topaz made an excuse not to come, so only Rose and I went. We drove to the sea.

It wasn't like an ordinary English picnic, because Neil cooked steak

over the fire--this is called a "barbecue"; I have been wondering what that was ever since I read about Brer Rabbit. The steak was burnt

outside and raw inside, but wonderfully romantic.

Simon was at his youngest and most American that day. He and Neil kept remembering a picnic they had been on together when they were very

little boys, before their parents separated. I suppose they are only

gradually getting to know each other again, but I feel sure Neil is

already fond of Simon; with Simon one can't tell, he is so much more

reserved. They are both equally kind but Neil's nature is much warmer, more open. He was nice even to Rose that day --well, most of the time; not that I see how anyone could have helped being, because she was at her very best. Perhaps the sea and the fun of cooking the steak did

it--something changed her into a gloriously real person again. She

laughed and romped and even slid down sand hills on her stomach. We

didn't bathe because none of us had brought suits--a good job, too, as the sea was icy.

Simon seemed more fascinated than ever by Rose.

Late in the afternoon, when she had just been particularly tomboyish, he said to Neil:

"Did you ever see such a change in a girl?"

"No, it's quite an improvement," said Neil. He grinned at Rose and she pulled a little face at him; just for that minute I felt they were

really friendly to each other.

"Do you think it's an improvement?" she asked Simon.

"I'm wondering. Shall we say it's perfect for the sea and the

sunlight--and the other Rose is perfect for candlelight? And perhaps

what's most perfect of all is to find there are several Roses?"

He was looking straight at her as he said it and I saw her return the look. But it wasn't like that time at the Scoatney dinner table-her

eyes weren't flirtatious; just for an instant they were wide and

defenceless, almost appealing. Then she smiled very sweetly and sad:

"Thank you, Simon."

"Time to pack up," said Neil.

It flashed through my mind that he had felt it was an important moment, just as I had, and didn't want to prolong it. After that, he was as

off-hand to Rose as ever and she just ignored him.

It was sad, when they had been so friendly all day.

Neil had driven coming out, so Simon drove going home, with Rose at the front beside him. I didn't hear them talking much;

Simon is a very careful driver and the winding lanes worry him. It

was fun at the back with Neil. He told me lots of interesting things

about life in America--they do seem to have a good time there,

especially the girls.

"Do Rose and I seem very formal and conventional, compared with

American girls?" I asked.

"Well, hardly conventional," he said, laughing, "even madam with her airs isn't that,"--he jerked his head towards Rose.

"No, I'd never call any of your family conventional, but--oh, I guess there's formality in the air here, even the villagers are formal; even you are, in spite of being so cute."

I asked him just what he meant by "formality."

He found difficulty in putting it into words, but I gather it includes reserve and "a sort of tightness."

"Not that it matters, of course," he added, hastily.

"English people are swell."

That was so like Neil--he will joke about England, but he is always

most anxious not really to hurt English feelings.

After that, we talked about America again and he told me of a

three-thousand-mile car-drive he made from California to New York.

He described how he would arrive in some little town at sunset, coming in through residential quarters, where there were big trees and green lawns with no fences round them and people sitting on their porches

with lighted windows behind them; and then drive through the main

street with the shops lit up and the neon signs brilliant against the deep blue sky- I must say I never thought of neon lighting as romantic before but he made it sound so. The hotels must be wonderful, even in quite small towns there is generally one where most of the bedrooms

have a private bath; and you get splendid food in places called Coffee Shops. Then he told me about the scenery in the different States he

passed through --the orange groves in California, the cactus in the

desert, the hugeness of Texas, the old towns in the South where queer gray moss hangs from the trees-- I particularly liked the sound of

that.

He drove from summer weather to winter--from orange blossom in

California to a blizzard in New York.

He said a trip like that gives you the whole feel of America

marvelously--and even to hear him describe it made America more real

for me than anything I have read about it or seen on the pictures. It was still so vivid for him that though each time we drove through a

beautiful village he would say "Yes, very pretty," I could tell he was still seeing America. I told him I was trying to see it too; if one

can sometimes get flashes of other people's thoughts by telepathy, one ought to be able to see what their minds' eyes are seeing.

"Let's concentrate on it," he said, and took my hand under the rug. We shut our eyes and concentrated hard. I think the pictures I saw were

just my imaginings of what he had described, but I did get the

strangest feeling of space and freedom--so that when I opened my eyes, the fields and hedges and even the sky seemed so close that they were almost pressing on me. Neil looked quite startled when I told him; he said that was how he felt most of the time in England.

Even when we stopped concentrating he went on holding my hand, but I

don't think it meant anything; I rather fancy it is an American habit.

On the whole, it felt just friendly and comfortable, though it did

occasionally give me an odd flutter round the shoulders.

It was dark when we got to the castle. We asked them in, but they were expecting Mrs. Cotton to arrive that evening and had to get back.

Father came home while I was describing our day to Topaz. (not one

word did he say about what he had been doing in London.) He had

travelled on the same train as Mrs.

Cotton and asked her to dinner on the next Saturday- with Simon and

Neil, of course. For once, Topaz really got angry.

"Mortmain, how could you?" she simply shouted at him.

"What are we to give them--and what on? You know we haven't a stick of dining-room furniture."

"Oh, give them ham and eggs in the kitchen," said Father, "they won't mind. And they've certainly provided enough ham."

We stared at him in utter despair. It was a good thing Rose wasn't

there because I really think she might have struck him, he looked so

maddeningly arrogant. Suddenly he deflated.

"I--just felt I had to--" all the bravado had gone out of his voice.

"She invited us to dine at Scoatney again next week and My God, I think my brain's going--I actually forgot about the dining-room furniture.

Can't you rig something up ?"

He looked pleadingly at Topaz. I can't stand it when he goes

humble--it is like seeing a lion sitting up begging (not that I ever

did see one). Topaz rose to the occasion magnificently.

"Don't worry, we'll manage. It's fun, in a way--a sort of

challenge-was she tried to use her most soothing contralto, but it

broke a bit. I felt like hugging her.

"Let's just look at the dining-room," she whispered to me, while Father was eating his supper. So we took candles and went along.

I can't think what she hoped for, but anyhow we didn't find it-we

didn't find anything but space. Even the carpet was sold with the

furniture.

We went into the drawing-room.

"The top of the grand piano would be original," said Topaz.

"With Father carving on the keys ?"

"Could we sit on the floor, on cushions? We certainly haven't enough chairs."

"We haven't enough cushions, either. All we really have enough of is floor."

We laughed until the candle wax ran down on to our hands.

After that we felt better.

In the end, Topaz got Stephen to take the hen-house door off its hinges and make some rough trestles to put it on, and we pushed it close to

the window-seat, which saved us three chairs.

We used the gray brocade curtains from the hall as a table-cloth--they looked magnificent, though the join showed a bit and they got in the

way of our feet. All our silver and good china and glass went long

ago, but the Vicar lent us his, including his silver candelabra. Of

course we asked him to dinner too, and he came early and sat in the

kitchen giving his possessions a final polish while we got dressed.

(rose wore Topaz's black dress; we had found it didn't look a bit

conventional on Rose--it suited her wonderfully.) Our dinner menu

was:

Clear soup (made from half the second ham-bone) Boiled chicken and ham Peaches and cream (the Cottons sent the peaches--just in time) Savory: Devilled ham mousse Topaz cooked it all and Ivy Stebbins brought it

in; Stephen and Thomas helped her in the kitchen. Nothing unfortunate happened except that Ivy kept staring at Simon's beard.

She told me afterwards that it gave her the creeps.

Mrs. Cotton was as talkative as ever but very nice--so easy; I think

it was really she who made us feel the dinner was a success.

Americans are wonderfully adaptable--Neil and Simon helped with the

washing-up. (they call it "doing the dishes.") I rather wished they hadn't insisted, because the kitchen looked so very un-American. It

was wildly untidy and Thomas had put all the plates on the floor for

Heloise and Abelard to lick--very wrong indeed, because chicken-bones are dangerous to animals.

Ivy washed and we all dried. Then Stephen took Ivy home. She is the

same age as I am but very big and handsome. She obviously has her eye on Stephen--I hadn't realized that before, I suppose it would be an

excellent thing for him if he married her, because she is the

Stebbins's only child and will inherit the farm. I wondered if he

would kiss her on the way home. I wondered if he had ever kissed any

girl. Part of my mind went with him through the dark fields, but most of it stayed with the Cottons in the kitchen. Neil was sitting on the table, stroking About into a coma of bliss; Simon was wandering round examining things. Suddenly the memory of that first time they came

here flashed back to me. I hoped Rose had forgotten Simon's shadow

looking like the Devil-I had almost forgotten it myself. There surely never was a more un-devilish man.

Soon after that we were into the exciting part of the evening.

It began when Simon asked if they might see over the castle; I had

guessed he would and made sure that the bedrooms were tidy.

"Light the lantern, Thomas, then we can go up on the walls," I said--I felt the more romantic I could make it, the better for Rose.

"We'll start from the hall."

We went through the drawing-room where the others were talking- that

is, Father and Mrs. Cotton were.

Topaz was just listening and the Vicar opened his eyes so wide when we went in that I suspected he had been dozing. He looked as if he rather fancied joining us but I was careful to give him no encouragement. I

was hoping to thin our party out, not thicken it up.

"The gatehouse first," said Rose when we got to the hall--and swept through the front door so fast that I saw she meant to skip the

dining-room. Personally, I thought pure emptiness would have been more distinguished than our bedroom furniture.

Little did I know how grateful Rose was to be to the humblest piece of it!

As we walked through the courtyard garden, Simon looked up at the

mound.

"How tall and black Belmotte Tower is against the starry sky," he said.

I could see he was working himself into a splendidly romantic mood. It was a lovely night with a warm, gentle little breeze --oh, a most

excellently helpful sort of night.

I never mount to the top of the gatehouse tower without recalling that first climb, the day we discovered the castle, when Rose kept butting into me from behind. Remembering that, remembering us as children,

made me feel extra fond of her and extra determined to do my best for her. All the time we were following the lantern and Simon was

marveling that the heavy stone steps could curve so gracefully, I was willing him to be attracted by her.

"This is amazing," he said as he stepped out at the top. I had never before been up there at night, and it really was rather exciting-not

that we could see anything except the stars and a few lights twinkling at Godsend and over at Four Stones Farm. It was the feel that was

exciting--as if the night had drawn closer to us.

Thomas set the lantern high on the battlements so that it shone on

Rose's hair and face; the rest of her merged into the darkness be cause of the black dress. The soft wind blew her little chiffon shoulder

cape across Simon's face.

"That felt like the wings of night," he said, laughing. It was fascinating watching his head next to hers in the lantern light- his so dark and hers so glowing.

I tried and tried to think of some way of leaving them by themselves up there, but there are limits to human invention.

After a few minutes, we went down far enough to get out on the top of the walls. It took quite a while to walk along them because Neil

wanted to know all about defending castles- he was particularly taken with the idea of a trebuchet slinging a dead horse over the walls. Rose tripped over her dress almost the first minute and after that Simon

kept tight hold of her arm, so the time wasn't wasted; he didn't let go until we stepped into the bathroom tower.

We left Thomas to show the bathroom- I heard Neil roaring with laughter at Windsor Castle. Rose and I ran on to the bed room and lit the

candles.

"Isn't there some way you can leave us alone together?"

she whispered.

I told her I had been hoping to, ever since dinner.

"But it's very difficult. Can't you just lag somewhere ?"

She said she had lagged on the top of the gatehouse tower, but Simon

hadn't lagged too.

"He just said "Wait a minute with that lantern, Thomas, or Rose won't be able to see." And down I had to "Don't worry--I swear I'll manage something," I told her.

We heard them crossing the landing.

"Who sleeps in the four-poster?" asked Simon, as they came in.

"Rose," I said quickly--it happened to be my week for it, but I felt it was more romantic than the iron bedstead for him to picture her in.

Then he opened the door to our tower and was very tickled to see Rose's pink evening dress hanging in it--she keeps it there because the frills would get crushed in the wardrobe.

"Fancy hanging one's clothes in a six-hundred-year-old tower!" he said.

Neil put his arm around Miss Blossom and said she was just his type of girl, then knelt on the window-seat to look down at the moat.

Inspiration came to me.

"How'd you like to bathe ?" I asked him.

"Love it," he said instantly.

"What, bathe tonight ?"--Thomas simply goggled at me.

"Yes, it'll be fun." Thank goodness, he caught the ghost of a wink I flickered at him, and stopped goggling.

"Lend Neil your bathing shorts--I'm afraid there's only one pair, Simon, but you could have them afterwards. Rose mustn't bathe because she gets chills so easily." (heaven forgive me! Rose is as strong as a horse--I am the one who gets chills.) "We'll watch from the window,"

said Simon.

I unearthed my bathing-suit, then ran after Thomas who was yelling from his room that he couldn't find the shorts--for an awful moment I feared he had left them at school.

"What's the game ?" he whispered.

"Don't you know the water'll be icy ?"

I did indeed. We never bathe in the moat until July or August and even then we usually regret it.

"I'll explain later," I told him.

"Don't you dare put Neil off." I found the shorts at last--they were helping to stop up Thomas's draughty chimney; luckily they are black.

"You'd better change in the bathroom," I called to Neil, "and go down the tower steps. You show him, Thomas, and then stay and light us with your lantern. I'll meet you at the moat, Neil."

I gave him the shorts, then went to change in Buffer. Simon called,

"Have a good swim," as I ran through the bedroom, then turned back to Rose. They were sitting on the window-seat looking splendidly

settled.

It was only while I was changing that I fully realized what I had let myself in for--I who hate cold water so much that even putting on a

bathing-suit makes me shiver. I went down the kitchen stairs feeling

like an Eskimo going to his frozen hell.

I had no intention of showing myself in the drawing-room--I had

outgrown my suit so much that the school motto was stretched right

across my chest; so I went to the moat via the ruins beyond the

kitchen. Near there, a plank bridge runs across to the wheat field. I sat on it, carefully keeping my feet well above the water.

Neil wasn't down- I could see the full length of the moat because the moon was rising. It was casting the most unearthly light across the

green wheat--so beautiful that I nearly forgot the horror having to

bathe. How moons do vary! Some are white, some are gold, this was

like a dazzling circle o tin-- I never saw a moon look so hard

before.

The water on the moat was black and silver and gold; silver where the moonlight shimmered on it, gold under the candlelit windows;

and while I watched, a gold pool spread around the corner tower as

Thomas came out and set the lantern in the doorway. Then Neil came

down looking very tall in the black bathing-shorts and stepped from

lantern light to moonlight.

"Where are you, Cassandra ?" he called.

I called back that I was coming, then put one toe in the water to know the worst. It was a far worse worst than I anticipated, and a brave

idea I'd had of getting my going-in agonies over by myself, and

swimming towards him, vanished instantly- I felt that a respite of even a few moments was well worth having. So I walked slowly along the edge of the field, with the wheat tickling my legs coldly as I brushed past, sat down on the bank opposite to him, and began a bright conversation.

Apart from putting of the horror plunging in, I felt dawdling was

advisable in order to give Rose more time-because I was pretty sure

that once we did get into the moat, we should very soon get out

again.

I talked about the beauty of the night. I told him the winning

anecdote of how I tried to cross the moat in a clothes-basket after I first heard about coracles. Then I started in on the good long subject of America, but he interrupted me and said."

"I believe you're stalling about this swim. I'm going in, anyway.

Is it deep enough for me to dive ?"

I said yes, if he was careful.

"Look out for the mud at the bottom," Thomas warned him. He did a cautious dive and came up looking a very surprised man.

"Gosh, that was cold," he shouted.

"And after all the sunshine we've been having!"

As if our moat took any notice of sunshine!

It is fed by a stream that apparently comes straight from Greenland.

I said: "I wonder if I ought to bathe, really--after such a heavy dinner."

"You don't get away with that," said Neil, "it was you who suggested it. Come on or I'll pull you in--it's really quite bearable."

I said to God: "Please, I'm doing this for my sister--warm it up a bit." But of course I knew He wouldn't.

My last thought before I jumped was that I'd almost sooner die.

It was agony- like being skinned with icy knives. I swam madly,

telling myself it would be better in a minute and feeling quite sure it wouldn't. Neil swam beside me. I must have looked very grim because

he suddenly said: "Say, are you all right ?"

"Just," I gasped, pulling myself up on to the plank bridge.

"You come right back and keep on swimming," he said, "or else you must go in and dry yourself. Oh, come on--you'll get used to it."

I slipped into the water again and it didn't feel quite so bad; by the time we had swum back as far as the drawing-room I was beginning to

enjoy it. Topaz and the Vicar, framed in the yellow square of the

window, were looking down on us. There was no sign of Rose and Simon

at the window high above;

I hoped they were too engrossed to look out. We swam through a patch

of moon-light--it was fun making silver ripples just in front of my eye sand then to the steps of the corner tower. Thomas had disappeared;

I hoped to heaven he hadn't gone back to Rose and Simon. his After we turned the corner to the front of the castle there was no more golden light from the windows or the lantern, nothing but moonlight. We swam on our hacks, looking up at the sheer, unbroken walls--never had they seemed to me so high. The water made slapping, chuckling noises

against them and they gave out a mysterious smell--as when thunder-rain starts on a hot day, but dank and weedy and very much of a night-time smell too.

I asked Neil how he would describe it but he only said, "Oh, I guess it's just wet stone"-- I found what he really wanted to think about was boiling oil being poured down on us from the battlements. Everything

to do with castle warfare fascinated him; when we reached the gatehouse he asked how drawbridges worked and was disappointed to find that our present bridge isn't one- we only call it "the drawbridge" to distinguish it from the Belmotte bridge. Then he wanted to know what

happened to the ruined walls we were swimming past and was most

indignant with Cromwell's Puritans for battering them down.

"What a darned shame," he said, looking up at the great tumbled stones.

I told him it was the first time I'd known him to have a feeling for

anything old.

"Oh, I don't get a kick out of this place because it's old," he said.

"It's just that I keep thinking it must have been a hell of a lot of fun."

Once we were round on the Belmotte stretch of the moat it was very

dark, because the moon wasn't high enough to shine over the house.

Suddenly something white loomed ahead of us and there was a hiss and a beating of wings--we had collided with the sleeping swans. Neil

enjoyed that, and I laughed myself but I was really quite frightened; swans can be very dangerous. Luckily ours bore no malice--they just

got out of our way and flapped into the bulrushes.

Soon after that, we swam under the Belmotte bridge and round into the moonlight again, on the south side of the moat.

There are no ruins there, the garden comes right down to the water; the big bed of white stocks smelt heavenly. It occurred to me that never

before had I seen flowers growing above my head, so that I saw the

stalks first and only the underneath of the flowers- it was quite nice change.

I was tired by then so I floated and Neil did too; it was lovely just drifting along, staring up at the stars. That was when we first heard the Vicar at the piano, playing "Air from Handel's Water Music," one of his nicest pieces--I guessed he had chosen it to suit our swim, which I took very kindly. It came to us softly but clearly; I wished I could

have floated on for hours listening to it, but I soon felt cold and had to swim fast again.

"There, we've made the complete circuit," I told Neil as we reached the plank bridge.

"I'll have to rest now."

He helped me out and we climbed over the ruins and sat down with our

backs against the kitchen wall; the sun had been shining on it all day and the bricks were still warm. We were in full moonlight.

Neil had patches of brilliant green duck-weed on his head and one

shoulder; he looked wonderful.

I felt that what with the moonlight, the music, the scent of the stocks and having swum round a six-hundred-year-old moat, romance was getting a really splendid leg-up and it seemed an awful waste that we weren't in love with each other--I wondered if I ought to have got Rose and

Simon to swim the moat instead of us.

But I finally decided that cold water is definitely anti-affection,

because when Neil did eventually put his arm round me it wasn't half so exciting as when he held my hand under the warm car-rug after the

picnic, it might have improved, I suppose, but the next minute I heard Topaz calling me--I couldn't tell where she was until Thomas signaled with his lantern from the Belmotte bridge. Then Father shouted that

they were taking Mrs. Cotton and the Vicar over to look at the mound

and Belmotte Tower.

"Mind you don't catch a chill," Topaz warned me.

Neil called: "I'll send her in now, Mrs.

Mortmain."

"But I'm not cold," I said quickly- I was afraid Rose hadn't had long enough.

"Yes, you are, you're beginning to shiver- so am I."

He took his arm from my shoulders.

"Come on, where do we find towels?"

Never has such an innocent question so kicked me in the solar plexus.

Towels! We have so few that on wash days we just have to shake

ourselves.

"Oh, I'll get you one," I said airily; then picked my way across the ruins very slowly, so as to give myself time to think.

I knew we had two pink guest-towels in the bathroom--that is, they were meant as guest-towels; they were really two afternoon-tea napkins,

kindly lent by Miss Marcy. Could I offer those to a large wet man his I could not. Then an idea came to me.

When we reached the back door I said: "Come in here, will you?

It'll be warm by the kitchen fire. I'll bring a towel down."

"But my clothes are in the bathroom-was Neil began.

I ran off calling over my shoulder: "I'll bring those, too."

I had decided to get my own towel or Rose's -whichever proved to be the drier- and fold it like a clean towel; then go back to Neil with it

clutched against me and apologize for having made it a bit damp. There would still be no need to disturb Rose's tete a tete with Simon,

because both towels were on our bedroom tower staircase-I had thrown

them out there while tidying the house for the Cottons- and I could

reach them through the drawing-room entrance to the tower. I meant to dress like lightning while Neil was dressing and then get back to the kitchen and keep him talking there a good while longer.

I got the drawing-room door to the tower open very quietly and started up. After I turned the bend I was almost in darkness so I went on all fours, feeling my way carefully.

There was an awkward moment when I got tied up in Rose's pink dress,

but once clear of that I saw the line of light under the door to our

bedroom. I knew the towels were only a few steps higher than that, so I stretched up and felt for them.

And then, through the door, I heard Simon say:

"Rose, will you marry me ?"

I stood stock still, scarcely daring to move in case they heard me.

Of course I expected Rose to say "Yes" instantly, but she didn't.

There was an absolute silence for a good ten seconds. Then she said,

very quietly but very distinctly:

"Kiss me, please, Simon."

There was another silence; a long one--I had time to think I wouldn't like my first kiss to be from a man with a beard, to wonder if Neil

would have kissed me if Topaz hadn't shouted to me, and to notice that a very cold draught was blowing down the tower on me. Then Rose spoke-with that excited little break in her voice that I know so well.

"Yes, please, Simon," she said.

Then they were quiet again. I grabbed a towel- I could only find one-

and started my way down. Suddenly I stopped. Might it not be more

sensible to walk right in on them, just in case ..

. his I don't quite know what I meant by "just in case"--surely I didn't imagine Simon might change his mind his All I knew was that the sooner the engagement was official the better. I went back.

When I pushed the tower door open they were still standing in each

other's arms. Simon jerked his head round quickly, then smiled at

me.

I hope I smiled back. I hope I didn't look as flabbergasted as I felt.

Just for one second I didn't think it was Simon. His beard was gone.

He said: "Is it all right by you if Rose marries me?"

Then we were all talking at once. I hugged Rose and shook hands with

Simon.

"My child, you're like ice," he said as he let my hand go.

"Hurry up and change out of that swimsuit."

"I must take Neil a towel first," I said, "and his clothes, too." I started off to the bathroom for them.

"How do you like Simon without his beard?" Rose called after me. I knew I ought to have spoken about it before but I'd had an embarrassed feeling.

"Wonderful?" I shouted. But was it? Of course he looked years and years younger and I was astonished to see how handsome he was. But

there was something defenseless about his face, as if strength had gone out of it. Oh, his chin isn't weak --it wasn't anything like that. It was just that he had .. . a lost sort of look.

How on earth did Rose get him to shave, I wondered, as I collected

Neil's things. I guessed she had dared him to.

I must say I was astonished at him--it seemed so undignified, using

Father's shaving tackle and my little enamel basin. (but then, the

dignified, stately Simon seems to have vanished with the beard-I find it hard to believe now that I was ever even a little bit in awe of

him;

not that I think the change is merely due to the beard having gone, it is far more due to his being so much in love with Rose.) When I went

into the kitchen, Neil was standing so close to the fire that his

bathing-shorts were steaming.

"Why, I thought you'd forgotten me," he said, turning to smile at me.

"Isn't it splendid ?" I cried.

"Rose and Simon are engaged."

His smile went like an electric light switched of.

I said: "You don't look exactly pleased."

"Pleased!" For a second he just stood glaring; then he grabbed the towel.

"Clear out and let me get dressed," he said--in a very rude tone of voice indeed.

I dumped his clothes down and turned to go, then changed my mind.

"Neil--please-was I tried to sound very friendly and reasonable.

"Why do you hate Rose so his You have from the beginning."

He went on drying his shoulders.

"No, I haven't. I liked her a lot at first."

"But not now? Why not, Neil?"

He stopped drying himself and looked me full in the face.

"Because she's a gold-digger. And you know it, Cassandra."

"I do not," I said, indignantly.

"How dare you say a thing like that?"

"Can you honestly tell me she isn't marrying Simon for his money ?"

"OF course I can!" I said it with the utmost conviction- and really believed it for that second. Then I felt my face go scarlet because,

well "You darned little liar," said Neil.

"And I thought you were such a nice honest kid! Did you take me

swimming deliberately?"

I was suddenly angry on my own account as well as Rose's.

"Yes, I did," I cried.

"And I'm glad I did. Rose told me you'd interfere if you could--just because you want Simon to go back to America with you! You mind your

own business, Neil Cotton!"

"Get the hell out of here!" he roared, looking so furious that I thought he was going to hit me. I went up the kitchen stairs like a

streak, but paused on the top step and spoke with dignity:

"I'd advise you to pull yourself together before you see Simon."

Then I whisked inside and bolted the door--I wouldn't have put it past him to have come after me.

One good thing about feeling so angry was that it had made me much

warmer, but I was glad to get out of my wet bathing-suit and dry myself on Topaz's bedspread. I was just finishing dressing in Buffer when I

heard the Belmotte party coming across the courtyard.

Simon, next door, said: "Let's go and tell them, Rose." So I ran in and we all went down together.

We met the others in the hall. Mrs. Cotton was close to the little

lamp on the bracket so I could see her expression clearly. She looked astonished enough when she saw Simon's beard was gone and got as far as

"Simon I" Then he interrupted, "Rose is going to marry me," and her mouth just fell open. I was almost sure she was dismayed as well as

surprised--but only for a second; then she seemed perfectly delighted.

She kissed Rose and Simon--and thanked her for getting him to shave.

She kissed Topaz and me-- I thought she was going to kiss Father! And she talked-- I once wrote that her talk was like a wall; this time it was more like battleship with all guns blazing. But she was very,

very kind; and the more one knows her, the more one likes her.

In the middle of the congratulations Neil came in-I was glad to see his dress shirt had got pretty crumpled while I lugged it about. No one

would have guessed that he had lost his temper only a few minutes

before. He said:

"Congratulations, Simon--I see the beard has gone! Rose dear, I'm sure you know all that I'm wishing you."

I must say I thought that was rather neat; but it didn't seem to strike Rose as having any double meaning. She smiled and thanked him very

nicely, then went on listening to Mrs.

Cotton.

The Vicar said he had some champagne in his cellar and Neil offered to drive to the vicarage for it--and actually had the nerve to ask me to go with him. I refused just as coldly as I could without making it

conspicuous.

But later on, when we were all standing talking in the courtyard before the Cottons went out to their car, he walked me away from the others so firmly that I let myself go with him. He took me as far as the big bed of stocks by the moat; then said:

"Make it up ?"

I said: "I don't think I'm keen to. You called me a liar."

"Suppose I apologize?"

"You mean you don't think I am one?"

"Won't you settle for a straightforward apology ?"

I felt in the circumstances that I would, but didn't see how I could

say so without its reflecting on Rose. So I didn't say anything.

Neil went on: "Suppose I add that I wouldn't blame you for lying--if you did his And that I admire you for defending Rose. You don't have

to say anything at all, but if you forgive me just squeeze my hand."

He slid his hand down from my elbow. I answered his squeeze.

He said, "Good"--then, in a more serious voice than I ever heard him use: "Cassandra, it isn't that I want him to come back to America with me, honest it isn't. Of course, I'd like it from a selfish point of

view--" "I oughn't to have said that," I broke in.

"It's my turn to apologize."

"Apology accepted." He squeezed my hand again, then let it go and sighed deeply.

"Oh, maybe I've got her all wrong--maybe she really has fallen for him.

Why not his Any girl in her senses would, I guess."

I guessed he guessed wrong about that--it seemed to me that lots of

girls wouldn't be attracted by Simon, in spite of his niceness;

and that most of them would be by Neil. The moonlight was shining on

his hair, which was drying curlier than ever.

I told him there was still a bit of duck-weed in it, and he laughed and said:

"That was a darned good swim anyhow." Then Mrs.

Cotton called:

"Come on, you two."

After we had seen them off, the night suddenly seemed very quiet.

I think we were all a little self-conscious. When we were back in the house Father said with a false kind of casualness: "Er -happy, Rose dear?"

"Yes, very," said Rose, with the utmost briskness, "but rather tired.

I'm going straight to bed."

"Let's all go," said Topaz.

"We shall wake Stephen if we wash the glasses tonight."

Stephen had been in quite a while--though I must say he had taken his time seeing Ivy home. I had asked him to come in and drink Rose's

health in the Vicar's champagne but he wouldn't. He smiled in the

most peculiar way when I told him about the engagement; then said, "Oh, well, I'm not saying anything," and went off to bed. Goodness knows what he meant.

I had a feeling that he had kissed Ivy.

I was longing to get Rose to talk, but I knew she wouldn't until the

trek to and from the bathroom was finished; and Father and Topaz seemed unusually slow about their washing.

When they were shut in their room at last, Rose made sure that both our doors were firmly closed; then jumped into bed and blew the candle

out.

"Well ?" I said, invitingly.

She began to talk fast, just above a whisper, telling me every thing.

It turned out I had been right in guessing that she dared Simon into

shaving.

"At first he thought I was joking," she said.

"Then he thought I was trying to make a fool of him and went all dignified. I didn't take any notice- I just had to see him without

that beard, Cassandra; I'd worked up a sort of horror about it. I went close to him and looked up and said: "you've got such a nice mouth -why hide it?"

and I traced the outline of his lips with my finger.

Then he tried to kiss me but I dodged and said: "No--not while you've got that beard," and he said: "Will you if I shave it ?"

I said: "I can't tell till it's off" -and then I ran and got Father's shaving things and Topaz's manicure scissors and a jug of hot water

from the bathroom. We were laughing all the time but there was a

queer, exciting feeling and I had to keep stopping him from kissing me.

He had an awful job with the shave and I suddenly went embarrassed and wished I'd never made him start. I could tell he was furious.

And heavens, he was a sight after he chopped off the long hair with the scissors! I bet I looked horrified because he shouted:

"Go away--go away! Stop watching me!" I went and sat on the window-seat and prayed--I mean I kept thinking "Please God, please God--"' without getting any further. It seemed ages before Simon dried his face and turned round. He said: "Now you know the worst," in a funny, rueful sort of voice; I could see he wasn't angry any more, he looked humble and touching, somehow--and so handsome! Don't you think he's handsome now, Cassandra?"

"Yes, very handsome. What happened next?"

"I said: "That's wonderful, Simon. I like you a thousand times better.

Thank you very, very much for doing it for me."

And then he asked me to marry him."

I didn't tell her I'd heard. I shouldn't like anyone to hear me being proposed to.

She went on: "Then--it was queer, really, because I'm sure I didn't hear you in the tower--I suddenly thought of you. I remembered your

saying I wouldn't know how I felt about him until I'd let him kiss me.

And you were right--oh, I knew that I liked him and admired him, but I still didn't know if I was in love. And there was my chance to find

out with the proposal safe in advance! So I asked him to kiss me. And it was wonderful--as wonderful as--" Her voice dwindled away. I

guessed she was re-living it and gave her a minute or so.

"Well, go on," I urged her at last, "as wonderful as what ?"

"Oh, as ever it could be. Heavens, I can't describe it! It was all right, anyway--I'm in love and I'm terribly happy. And I'm going to

make things splendid for you, too. You'll come and stay with us and

marry someone yourself. Perhaps you'll marry Neil."

"I thought you hated him."

"I don't hate anyone tonight. Oh, the relief -the relief of finding I'm in love with Simon!"

I said: "Supposing you hadn't found it, would you have refused him

?"

She was a long time before she answered, then her tone was defiant:

"No, I wouldn't. Just before he kissed me I said to myself:

"You'll marry him anyway, my girl." And do you know what made me say it his Beyond him, on the dressing table, I could see my towel I'd lent him for the shave- all thin and frayed and awful. Not one spare towel have we in this house--" "Don't I know it ?" I interrupted with feeling.

"I won't live like that. I won't, I won't!"

"Well, you'll be able to have all the towels you want now," said Miss Blossom's voice.

"Ever such congratulations, Rosie dear."

"And all the clothes I want," said Rose.

"I'm going to think about them until I fall asleep."

"Would you like the four-poster so that you can gloat in style?" I offered.

But she couldn't be bothered to change.

While I was lying awake re-swimming the moat I noticed my enamel jug

and basin silhouetted against the window; it was queer to think they

had played a part in Simon's shave.

I kept seeing him with two faces--with the beard and without. Then it came to me that there was some famous person who shaved because of a

woman.

I tried and tried to think who it was but I fell asleep without

remembering.

In the very early morning I woke up and thought "Samson and

Delilah"--it was as if someone had spoken the words in my ear.

Of course, it was Samson's hair that got cut, not his beard, so the

story didn't quite fit. But I did think Rose would rather fancy her

self as Delilah.

I sat up and peered across at her, wondering what she was dreaming.

While I watched, it grew light enough to see her bright hair stretched across the pillow and the faint pink flush on her cheeks.

She was looking particularly beautiful--though no one could say Aunt

Millicent's nightgown was becoming. It's strange how different Rose

seems with her eyes closed--much more childish and gentle and serene. I felt so very fond of her. She was sleeping deeply and peacefully,

though in a most uncomfortable position with one limp arm hanging out of the iron bedstead- you have to lie on the extreme outside to avoid the worst lumps in the mattress. I thought what a different bed she

was certain to come by. I was terribly happy for her.

XII am sitting on the ruins beyond the kitchen-where I sat with Neil, three weeks ago all but a day, after swimming the moat. How different it is now, in the hot sunshine! Bees are humming, a dove is cooing,

the moat is full of sky. Heloise has just gone down to take a drink

and a swan is giving her a glance of utter disdain.

Abelard went into the tall green wheat a few minutes ago, looking

rather like a lion entering the jungle.

This is the first time I have used the beautiful manuscript book Simon gave me- and the fountain pen which came from him yesterday.

A scarlet pen and a blue and gold leather-bound book-what could be more inspiring? But I seemed to get on better with a stump of pencil and

Stephen's fat, shilling exercise book .... I keep closing my eyes and basking--that is, my body basks; my mind is restless. I go backwards

and forwards, recapturing the past, wondering about the future--and,

most unreasonably, I find myself longing for the past more than for the future. I remind myself of how often we were cold and hungry with

barely a rag to our backs, and then I count the blessings that have

descended on us; but I still seem to fancy the past most. This is

ridiculous. And it is ridiculous that I should have this dull, heavy, not exactly unhappy but--well, no kind of feeling when I ought to be

blissfully happy.

Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with

me.

It is just a week since Rose and Topaz went to London. Mrs.

Cotton asked me, too--they are staying at her Park Lane flat-but

someone had to be here to look after Father and Thomas and Stephen;

besides, if I had accepted she might have felt she had to buy clothes for me, as well as give Rose her trousseau. She is wonderfully

generous and wonderfully tactful. Instead of pressing money on us to

pay our way here, she insisted on buying the beaver-lined coat for two hundred pounds.

As for the trousseau, she said to Rose: "My dear, I always longed for a daughter to dress- let me have my share of your happiness."

I was rather surprised that Topaz agreed to go to London, but the night before they left we had an illuminating talk. I came up from the

kitchen with some things I had been ironing for her and found her

sitting on her bed beside a half-filled suitcase, staring at nothing.

"I'm not going," she said, her voice quite baritone with tragedy.

"Good heavens, why not?" I asked.

"Because my motives are all wrong. I've been telling myself that it'd be good for Mortmain to be here without me for a bit, and that I ought to see some of my friends- renew my artistic interests, make myself

more stimulating. But the real truth is that I want to keep an eye on that woman and be sure she doesn't see him when he comes up to London.

And that's despicable. Of course I'm not going."

"Well, I don't see how you can cry off now," I told her.

"And you can always put things straight with your conscience by not keeping an eye on Mrs. Cotton. Topaz, do you really think that

Father's in love with her his You haven't a scrap of evidence."

"I've the evidence of my eyes and ears. Have you watched them together his He listens to her as if he liked it, and he not only listens, he

talks. He talks more to her in an evening than he's talked to me all

this last year."

I pointed out that he doesn't talk much to any of us.

"Then why doesn't he? What's wrong with us?

I'd begun to think he was temperamentally morose--that he just couldn't help it--but after seeing him turn on his charm for the Cottons! Heaven knows I didn't expect an easy life when I married him--I was prepared even for violence. But I do loathe morosity."

It was no moment to tell her there is no such word;

anyway, I rather liked it.

"Perhaps Mrs. Cotton will go back to America with Neil," I suggested comfortingly.

"Not she. She's taken the flat for three years.

Oh lord, what a fool I am- how can I stop her meeting him, even if I do stay with her his There are thousands of places they can go.

He'll probably renew his interest in the British Museum."

I must say it was a bit suspicious--he hadn't been to London once while Mrs. Cotton was at Scoatney.

"In that case, you might as well go," I said.

"I mean, it doesn't matter your motive being to spy, if you know very well that you can't."

"That's true." She heaved a sigh that was almost a groan and sounded very histrionic, then began to pack her shroud like night gowns.

Suddenly she strode to the window and stood looking at Father's light in the gatehouse.

"I wonder!" she said sepulchrally.

I obligingly asked her what.

"If I shall ever come back. I've got my cross-roads feeling--I've only had it three or four times in my life. That night in the Cafe Royal

when Everard hit the waiter-was She stopped dead.

"Why did he do that?" I asked with the utmost interest. Everard was her second husband, a fashion artist; her first was called Carlo and

had something to do with a circus. Rose and I have always longed to

know about them.

It wasn't any good. She turned a faintly outraged stare on me and

murmured foggily: "Let the dead bury their dead." As far as I know, Everard is alive and kicking and I never have seen how the dead can go burying anyone.

Nothing of great importance to me happened between the night of the

engagement and Rose and Topaz going to London. Of course, we went to

Scoatney several times but Neil wasn't there. He went off to see the

Derby and other races; it seemed a pity that he had to go to them

alone. After thinking about it a lot, I wrote him a little note. I

can remember it word for word:

DEAR NEIL,

I am sure you will be glad to know that Rose really is in love with

Simon. When I talked to you last, I was afraid she might not be- so

you were justified in calling me a liar, but I am not one now. Rose

told me herself and she is very truthful. To prove this, I will tell

you she admitted most honestly that she would have married him even if she had not been in love. I don't think I quite believe that, but

anyway, please do not count it against her, as she is a girl who finds poverty very hard to bear and she has been bearing it for years. And

as she fell in love with him at the psychological moment, everything

has come right.

I hope you are having a nice time in London.

With love from your future sister-in-law

CASSANDRA

I thought it would be all right to put "with love" in a relation like way--though I am not quite sure if Rose's marriage really will make me his sister-in-law. Perhaps I shall only be Simon's.

I must now go indoors--partly because the sun is too hot and partly so that I can copy in Neil's reply.

Here I am on the bedroom window-seat with a glass of milk and a

now-eaten banana.

Neil wrote back:

DEAR CASSANDRA,

It was nice of you to write that letter and what you say is probably

right. I guess I was being unreasonable and certainly very rude. I

apologize again.

Mother's apartment is so full that I have moved to a hotel, so I have not seen much of them all, but I joined them at a theatre last night

and everyone seemed very happy. It was an opening night and the

photographers made a rush at Mrs. Mortmain, who looked stunning.