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“Are you from Conningscliff Guest House, or am I taking too much for granted?”

His rich, deep voice, with the barest trace of a colonial accent, suited his personality, Ruth thought, as she met his dark eyes and found herself unable to fix a colour to them. “Mr. Travayne, I think?” she said.

“Yes. John Travayne,” he replied. “Are you, by any chance, Miss Ruth Farday?”

She was surprised and amused by his use of her full name, and realised that he must have seen it on the prospectus her father had sent when he booked the room.

“Yes,” she admitted, “I am.” She turned to the well-worn hogskin suitcase which a porter had brought from the luggage-van. “It’s more than a mile to the farm,” she explained, “so I brought the trap along for your things.”

He lifted the case, hoisting it easily into the back of the trap and tipping the porter. Ruth was up in the driving- seat before he turned again, and with an easy movement he swung himself up beside her.

“If you don’t mind?” he said.

She smiled.

“I don’t—if you prefer to sit in front,” she assured him, letting the whip rest on the mare’s back, which was the agreed sign between them to start.

John Travayne! Ruth found herself repeating his name inwardly, over and over again, as they drove along. Once or twice she permitted herself a glance at him as the mare jogged over the moor road. He was looking about him with a grave air of concentration, as if he were anxious to capture every detail of the route and store it in his mind. Once, Ruth was aware that he had turned and was looking at her with that same strange, questing concentration, but she kept her eyes on the little mare’s bobbing head and did not return her guest’s scrutiny.

When they came to the edge of the moor she pointed out the farm.

“That’s Conningscliff over there, at the end of that lane of trees.” She reined the mare in and pointed towards the cliffs, where a vague band of grey sea stretched away towards the horizon. “We’re quite near the sea,” she continued, “and there’s a small sandy bay just over the dunes there. The house behind the grey wall is Carbay Hall. You can see it quite plainly now when the trees are not fully in leaf. Squire Veycourt owns most of the

land around here.”

Ruth wondered if she was boring him with her quick descriptions.

“Go on,” he said. “How long have you lived here?”

“Six years. We were farming Conningscliff, but my father had an accident ...”

She could not bring herself to speak much of that yet, and the man by her side seemed to understand.

“Recently, I suppose,” he said. “That was the idea for the Guest House, then?”

“Yes,” she confessed. “It seemed the best thing to do. I suppose a woman
could
run a farm, but not successfully enough to keep a place like Conningscliff out of debt. I confess my limitations. It’s a man’s job!”

“You’ve taken on a heavy enough responsibility as it is,” he said quickly. “Is your father a complete invalid?”

“At the moment—yes.” The tears were very near Ruth’s eyes. “In time, perhaps, something might be done ...” “I’m sorry,” he said.

They were nearing the farm now, jolting pleasantly under the leafy canopy of trees which led up to the white gate.

“This is my first holiday in England for many years,” he volunteered abruptly.

“I hope you will like it here,” she said. “If you want a rest it is an ideal spot.”

They were through the white gate now, and the wheels were crunching over the cinder track. He looked round at her.

“I don’t want a rest so much,” he said slowly. “I want to feel the wind in my face, and a sea fret round me now and then, and a breeze that’s cold and invigorating coming across the moor. You can’t understand what that means until you’ve lived for eight years in India without a break!”

“Perhaps you’ve been home-sick, too—a little,” she suggested.

A frown creased his forehead for a moment.

“Perhaps I have,” he said, and his eyes sought the rugged line of cliff above the grey North Sea.

Peg had flung open the big front door and was standing back in the dimness of the hall awaiting them. Travayne entered and looked about him with frank curiosity. His lips were compressed a little, and with an odd, sick feeling at her heart, Ruth felt that he

was disappointed in the place.

“Will you show Mr. Travayne to his room. Peg?” she said, turning to the beaming Mrs. Emery.

“Yes, Miss Ruth.”

Peg would have lifted the suitcase, but Travayne forestalled her. She turned back to Ruth before they mounted the stairs.

“There’s a Miss Grenton just arrived, too,” she said. “She came by road, an’ she said she was early. Will Finberry’s showing her where to put her car.”

Ruth excused herself to Travayne and hurried through the kitchen to greet her other guest. In the flagged yard she found Will Finberry escorting her towards the house.

Valerie Grenton was a typical product of the modern fashionable world. Daughter of an over-indulgent father who had made his money from the manufacture of a popular brand of boiled sweets, she had been denied nothing from the first day she could lisp a request. She owned her own luxurious car, and did exactly what she liked with her rather useless life. Her father made only one stipulation. For appearance’ sake he begged her to employ a companion, and rather than enter into an argument, Valerie Grenton had agreed. Miss Strayte was with her now. She was a woman in the uncertain years between thirty and forty, with parchment-like skin which had never known any touch of cosmetic, and seemed to Ruth only to accentuate the too liberal use of make-up on Miss Grenton’s.

“Are you the hostess?”

Valerie Grenton approached Ruth and, without awaiting an answer, passed on into the kitchen. Ruth followed in her wake, a little taken aback by her guest’s summary manner.

“Yes,” she said. “Will you come this way, Miss Grenton? I hope you have had a pleasant journey up?”

“It was chronic!” Valerie replied. “I had a puncture this side of Newcastle, too, which hung me up till the wheel was changed.” She walked ahead of Ruth into the main room of the farmhouse which had been converted into a large, comfortable lounge. It was gay with new chintz and great bowls of freshly picked daffodils from the Carbay Woods. Ruth was very proud of the homely picture it made, but her second guest perched herself on the arm of the nearest chair and said petulantly:

“I had no idea that this place was at the back of beyond.”

“It’s quiet,” Ruth acknowledged, “but we will do our best to amuse you while you are here.”

“I should imagine that would be about the most difficult task you have ever undertaken,” the other girl said with a little twist of her lips that might have been a smile. “I’ve just recovered from a nasty bout of influenza, and I’ve been sent up here to recuperate. Dad might have told me that ‘vegetate’ was the nearer word!”

Ruth chose to ignore that last sentence and waited patiently while Valerie completed her tour of inspection of the ground floor.

“I hope you are going to like it here,” she ventured at last, and wondered at the same time why it didn’t seem to matter in the slightest whether Valerie Grenton liked Conningscliff or not.

It had mattered whether John Travayne was satisfied, she acknowledged inwardly.

Miss Grenton had turned to look at her more closely. “I’ll tell you that in a day or two,” she said abruptly. “Meantime, I’m feeling very much in need of a wash after that disgustingly long journey. This is a new type of holiday to me, but I’m willing to sample everything once. Are there many people here?”

“Just another gentleman, at the moment—” began Ruth.

“Who has been enjoying the view from his bedroom window immensely, Miss Farday. May I congratulate you on your Guest House?”

Ruth swung round. John Travayne was coming down the room towards them. He was looking straight at Ruth and, as she turned to introduce him to his fellow-guest, she was aware of a remarkable change in Valerie Grenton’s expression. The petulant lips were curved in a winning smile, and the languorous dark eyes were turned full upon the newcomer.

“Mr. Travayne—Miss Grenton,” Ruth introduced them.

Valerie held out her immaculately gloved hand.

“I thought I was about to be bored to death with my own company,” she said.

“Life’s too short and should be too interesting to be bored,” Travayne replied

“It depends on the interest!” Valerie said lightly. “You must admit that the right company goes a long way to relieve boredom.”

Travayne turned to Ruth.

“I see you have a few animals in the fields still. May I take a look round?” he asked.

“Certainly,” Ruth said. “I am just going to show Miss Grenton to her room, but you’ll find our man somewhere— probably in the vicinity of the stack-shed. He’ll show you round.”

Valerie Grenton had gone out into the hall in search of her companion.

“Amelia, where in heaven’s name do you wander to?” she demanded when Miss Strayte came in through the side door from the garden.

“I saw some flowers, my dear, and I simply had to go out and walk among them,” Miss Strayte replied absently, as she shook hands with Ruth. “What a lovely garden you have, Miss Farday,” she continued eagerly. “I love flowers.”

“Don’t babble, Amelia!” Valerie broke in. “Miss Farday is waiting to show us to our rooms.”

Ruth led the way to the wide, black oak staircase which was one of the many attractions of the old farmhouse, and Valerie followed with a strange little speculative smile playing round her mouth.

“I think I’m going to like it here—after all,” she said slowly.

CHAPTER FOUR

Valerie Grenton was obviously attracted by John Travayne from the first moment she set eyes upon him, but if it was apparent to Travayne—as Ruth thought it could not fail to be—he made no sign.

Ruth told herself that she was too busy to think of the affairs of her individual guests as Good Friday passed and the Saturday brought the remainder of her Easter house-party. Yet, very often, as she turned to some new task which lay ready for her busy hands, she wondered what John Travayne was doing out there on the cliffs, and if Valerie was his companion.

Easter Monday morning found Ruth in the kitchen helping Mrs. Emery to provide a breakfast for sixteen people whose appetites had already been sharpened by the invigorating moorland air. Most of the guests had arrived by road, and Ruth was secretly relieved that they all appeared to be good mixers. She had been nervous of this first week-end, anxious in case she might fail to keep the interest in the holiday alive. So much depended on the people themselves, she acknowledged now, and she had been fortunate.

“Sally,” she said to the little maid who had been engaged to help in the kitchen, “ring the first bell.”

Sally went out eagerly to the novelty of making a great noise with the new bell, and Ruth turned to Mrs. Emery, who was studying a packet of breakfast cereal with a puzzled look on her heat-flushed face.

“What’s the matter, Peg?” Ruth asked.

“I still canna understand folks eatin’ the likes o’ this when there’s good porridge for their likin’,” Peg said.

Ruth lifted the offending packet and, opening it, shook some of the crisp golden flakes into a bowl.

“There’s no accounting for tastes, Peg!” she said gaily. “We must consider everybody, and variety at the table is half the secret of keeping guests.”

“That’s what you read in that silly book you were studyin’,” Peg said dryly. “A lot o’ stupid ideas in there, I’d be thinking!”

“And some quite good ones, too, Peg,” Ruth replied in defence of her book on
How to manage a Modern Guest House.
“Now, let me see,” she went on, “there’s orange juice in this and tomato juice in that.” She set the glass jugs on a big oak tray and peeped into a covered dish which Peg had set on the dresser. “Hullo! What have we here?” Peg looked over her shoulder at the half-dozen hard-boiled eggs in the dish—two blue, two red, and two purple.

“I dyed them last night,” she defended their strange appearance. “Ye canna have three bairns without paste eggs to roll, can ye?”

Ruth laughed. It was so like Peg to think of this little detail to please the three children who were staying at Conningscliff with their parents.

“They’ll be delighted,” she said, turning to the door which led into the hall. “Can you manage now, Peg?”

“Fine!” Mrs. Emery declared, replacing the lid above her treasures. “You run on an’ get everybody seated.”

Ruth had wondered about individual tables at Conningscliff, and then had come to the conclusion that the long mahogany table which had always stood in the dining-room would be more appropriate, considering the effect of farm life she wished to convey. The snowy cloth and the plain, blue-banded china gleamed in the light of the huge log-fire which Will Finberry had lit early in the morning. Peg’s breakfast rolls made two pyramids at either end of the table, and the golden gleam of home-made marmalade echoed the colour of the huge bowl of daffodils in the centre.

Mrs. Finchley, a grey-haired, motherly woman whom the sudden acquisition of a large fortune had not changed, was already seated at the head of the table, a place Ruth had impulsively assigned to her at supper on the evening of her arrival. Ruth greeted her warmly and was instantly besieged by her two grandchildren, Peter and Brenda Finchley, and the shy little Wilton child who bore the travesty of a name, Ernestine, because her parents had been grievously disappointed on the day of her birth. “Can we have our eggs, please?” they demanded in chorus. “Mr. Travayne is going to help us to bowl them!”