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“Good-morning, Valerie!” Monset said gravely. “Still driving to the danger of the public, I see!”

“Victor—you idiot!” Valerie Grenton gave a little laugh. “What are you doing here?”

Monset moved to the side of the car.

“I’d like to be able to say that my devotion prompted me to follow you to the ends of the earth, but truth compels me to admit that I am here as a guest of Squire Veycourt of Carbay Hall,” he said airily.

“Carbay Hall? Good heavens! I had no idea that you knew anyone outside thirty miles of London!” Valerie exclaimed.

“Which just lets you see what you have missed by refusing to cultivate my acquaintance!” Monset laughed. “My possibilities are endless, I assure you!”

“Stop fooling!” Valerie commanded. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

“You can put me down at the end of the lane,” Monset said, getting in beside her. “I expect you’re on your way back to Conningscliff?”

“How did you know I was there?” Valerie asked. “Two days ago I saw a cream touring car with a number which I committed to memory several months ago. Yesterday I saw the owner of said car and her admirable companion in the garden of

the farm as I was passing.

Putting two and two together—!”

“Victor,” Valerie interrupted, “why can’t you be serious for a moment and tell me how you come to be staying at Carbay Hall?” “If I remember rightly, the last time I was serious I asked you to marry me,” Monset replied, “and I believe you told me not to be foolish—or some such enigmatical remark to that effect!” Valerie laughed, but she did not turn to meet the artist’s direct look.

“I told you I couldn’t make up my mind,” she said.

“And are you still in that uncertain mental state?” he inquired, continuing to gaze down at her steadily.

“Yes—more so than ever now,” she admitted, as if the confession had been drawn from her half against her will.

“I’m still of the opinion, of course, that you will never be capable of knowing your own mind,” Monset remarked, in a tone that might have passed for indifference.

“So you think I ought to have someone to make it up for me?” “Someone will—some day,” he predicted lightly. “Will you drive on, or do we sit here until we are moved on by some passing hay-cart?”

Valerie let in her clutch with a little angry movement. Why was Victor Monset always like this, she mused, as they ran smoothly under the trees. Why was he always so tantalisingly indifferent half a minute after he had asked her to marry him? And in heaven’s name, why had he to be a penniless artist with no decent connections?

She swung the car on to the cinder track and put on her brakes. What right had Victor to come up here and spoil things, anyway? She tried to tell herself that she was no longer interested in him.

Monset got out and stood with his hand on the door of the car.

“When do you go back to London?” he asked.

“On Sunday,” Valerie replied, and then another thought seemed to strike her. “No,” she said, “it all depends!”

“On one of the other guests?” he queried dryly.

“Why shouldn’t I say yes!” Valerie cried half angrily. “You admire frankness, I believe—even in a woman, Victor!”

“More so in a woman!” he told her.

“Because?”

He smiled at the resentful question.

“Because it is so very rare.”

“Sometimes I think I hate you,” she said.

“Then I had better say Good-morning!”

He was gone, swinging back down the avenue with that grace of movement which had first attracted Valerie in London.

Yes, sometimes she hated him, Valerie thought, as she drove the remaining distance to the farm.

C H A P T E R N I N E

Towards the end of the week Conningscliff’s first guests began to depart. The Wiltons travelled south early on the Friday morning, and there was a somewhat tearful parting between little Ernestine and Brenda Finchley who had become firm friends in that short time together. Peter Finchley looked on at this show of emotion with all a man’s contempt of such scenes, yet Ernestine went away with a squashed bar of chocolate clutched in her hand, a concession which Peter had made to the bond of friendship.

John Travayne stood in the porch and watched the Wiltons' car disappear down the cinder track. His pipe had gone out, and he lit it slowly before he went round the end of the house in search of Ruth. His face was grave as he turned in at the opening in the privet hedge which led into the garden, and his brows were drawn together in thought.

Ruth, seeing him approach before he had noticed her, wondered what was troubling him. She was plaiting daffodil leaves into neat knots along the borders when he came towards her.

“I’ve found a minute to attend to the garden at last,” she said with a smile. “I’m afraid it looks rather dilapidated at present.”

He took the hoe which was standing against the wall and

began to ease the earth round the rose trees.

“I’ll settle up to-night,” he said suddenly. “I’ll be leaving-first thing to-morrow morning.”

Ruth rose to her feet.

“Leaving?” She gave a little, shaky laugh. “Oh yes—of course! What time shall I call you to-morrow?”

The question came automatically. She scarcely realised what she was asking him. Only one fact dominated her mind—he was leaving. John Travayne was leaving Conningscliff, and he was leaving a day sooner than he had originally intended. Ruth tried to pull herself together. What kind of foolish thoughts was she permitting? John Travayne was a guest—like any other holidaymaker at Conningscliff—like the Wiltons and the Finchleys and like Valerie Grenton. Why should the day of his departure rise before her across a dark horizon? She was being incredibly foolish, she told herself angrily. She had known all along that this week could not last for ever—the haunting sweetness of it, the brief moments of a perfect companionship. She had dared to dream that it might, but dreams were abstract things. This was reality.

She looked at him and found him engrossed in his task. He had not even replied to her formal question. The silence between them held for a moment. It was as if the garden, hushed and still, awaited some confession. At last Ruth, unable to bear the strange feeling of expectancy any longer, asked:

“You’re going back to London?”

He dug the hoe into the soft earth and left it upright and quivering.

“Not immediately. I’m breaking my journey at Newcastle on business.”

“Oh—!”

Ruth lifted her basket and drew off her gardening gloves. “You’ve made this a very enjoyable week for me,” Travayne said. “I want to thank you.”

The words were stilted—conventional. Ruth reproved herself mentally for expecting anything more. After all, it was her job to see that people enjoyed themselves at Conningscliff.

“It’s part of my duty to see that things run smoothly for my guests,” she said rather stiffly. “I’m glad that your holiday has proved a success.”

What was forcing her to speak like this to him? Perhaps the fact that, had she spoken more kindly, she might have let him see only too plainly how much his going really meant to her.

“Let me take your basket for you,” he said more gently, as she passed him on the narrow path.

She gave him the basket and he walked behind her to the house. Her father was sitting at the door of the kitchen, so obviously waiting for Travayne to chat with him that Ruth’s eyes filled with sudden tears and she made her way swiftly into the house.

For the remainder of the day she saw John only at meal times, and she sat with her father in the evening, going over accounts and the preparations for the next list of guests. She knew that Travayne was in the garden; she had seen the glow of his pipe in the dusk from her bedroom window, but she bent her head over her books and told herself that the morning was a saner time for partings.

Travayne had asked to be called at eight o’clock, although the train which would take him south was not due at the Junction until ten-thirty. Ruth, determined that she would not see him more than was strictly necessary, decided to make her weekly trip to Alnwick for provisions in the morning instead of waiting until after lunch.

She was ready to walk into the village to catch the ten o’clock bus when she sought out Travayne.

“I’ll say good-bye now,” she said, meeting his eyes frankly. “Will Finberry will drive you to the Junction. I’ve told him to bring the trap round at ten o’clock.”

He held out his hand.

“This is not good-bye,” he said, looking down at her steadily, “as long as there is a Guest House at Conningscliff.”

Before Ruth could reply Valerie Grenton appeared at the door of the lounge.

“Oh, here you are!” she said. “I was looking for you in the kitchen. I’ve been settling up with your father. I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind again about staying that extra day, and I mean to be off right away.”

“Just as you wish,” Ruth said. “Would you care to have your lunch earlier?’

“I won’t be waiting for lunch,” Valerie said, with a quick glance in Travayne’s direction. “I’ll have it on the way south.”

“Mr. Travayne is going this morning, too,” Ruth said, wondering why she found it necessary to impart the news.

“Really!” Valerie’s surprise was beautifully assumed.

“Oh, then
do
let me give you a lift to the first decent-sized town—or the whole way, if you like,” she offered, turning to the silent Travayne.

“I’m only going as far as Newcastle to-day,” he said. “I’ve arranged to catch the ten-thirty at the Junction. ”

“But surely you’re not going to be so unkind as to refuse!” Valerie smiled. “You know I’ll have to suffer Amelia’s company for the rest of the way to London. You might take pity on me and give me yours as far as Newcastle!”

It would have been nothing short of churlishness on Travayne’s part had he refused. Ruth tried to acknowledge this inwardly as she turned away without hearing his reply. She called a few last-minute instructions to Peg Emery through the open top half of the kitchen door and, waving good-bye to her father, set out for Carbay village.

As the red bus wound along the moor road she tried to sort out the chaos of her thoughts. Why should she care from whom John Travayne accepted a lift? He was perfectly at liberty to drive to London with Valerie Grenton if he so desired. Perhaps Valerie, too, would spend the night in Newcastle, and they would continue south together in the morning. Why not? Why not! They had gone out of her life for ever ... The thought had power to hurt her. “This is not good-bye as long as there is a Guest House at Conningscliff!” He had said that less than an hour ago—so gravely, meaning it! Would he come back? Would she ever see him again?

The south-bound train thundered past. Ruth watched the blurred length of it through the misted windows of the bus. Was John Travayne on board, or was he following more pleasantly by road?

The bus drew into Alnwick ten minutes behind scheduled time, and Ruth spent the next hour making her round of the various shops. She must have a pair of new shoes; there was extra grain to be ordered; some material to match up for new cushions for the lounge, and the long list of provisions to be left for the grocer’s van to deliver the following week. She went about those heretofore congenial tasks listlessly, and was frankly glad when they were completed. It had turned colder, and the long journey back in the bus was not a pleasing prospect. With a quarter of an hour to spare, she turned into a tea-room and found a seat by the low, net-curtained window which overlooked the street. A waitress she knew came over to her table.

“It’s much colder to-day, Miss Farday,” the girl said.

“Yes—I think it calls for coffee and a toasted muffin, Betty,” Ruth replied. “I’m going back by the twelve-twenty bus,” she added.

“I won’t be two seconds with the coffee, the girl said. “and the muffin will be up in a jiffy.”

She went over to a serving hatch and gave the order, coming back to the table to set brown sugar and cream

before her customer.

“I’ve been hearing about your new boarding-house,” she said. “I’m sure I hope it is a great success, Miss Farday.”

“Thanks, Betty!” Ruth smiled, as the girl departed to attend to another customer.

She settled down to enjoy her light meal, and her gaze wandered to the street. Suddenly her cup went down in her saucer and she sat stiffly upright in her cane chair. Through the net curtains she saw a big cream touring car draw into the open space before the cafe, and in another second John Travayne had alighted and was helping Valerie and Miss Strayte out of the car.

Ruth seemed to hang suspended over a bottomless pit as she watched them turn towards the cafe. She must not let them find her there! She must get away before they discovered her!

When she looked out of the window again, Valerie had turned towards a big hotel farther down the street and was propelling John laughingly towards the entrance.

Ruth sat back in her corner behind the sheltering screen of net. Her lips were trembling, and there was only one thought standing out clear in her mind. She loved John Travayne. She had loved him from that very first moment when he had stepped down from the train at Carbay Junction.