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It became unbearable. Suddenly Rosamund jumped to her feet.

“I—I think I'll turn in now,” she said in a high-pitched, breathless voice. “I really am tired—”

“By all means.”

John walked over to the cocktail cabinet and put his empty glass down with exaggerated care, his back towards her.

“I hope Mrs. Brickwell has fitted you up with everything you need?” he went on with studied politeness.

“Oh yes, thank you.” Rosamund did her best to echo that impersonal tone.

John opened the door for her.

“Good night, Rosamund.”

“Good night,” she responded, her head in the air so that he wouldn’t guess how near she was to tears.

The door was closed quietly but firmly behind her.

MRS. BRICKWELL had a sense of the fitness of things. No matter how drastic the emergency, from the very first she had put her foot down in one respect. While she had her strength, no one was going to be put in the principal suite of the house.

“It’s not suitable—beautiful rooms like that!” she had declared adamantly.

And how right she had proved to be! Really, she felt, with Mr. John and his new wife turning up so unexpectedly, it really looked as if she had been
guided
!

So John and Rosamund were duly installed in the suite—two connecting bedrooms, two bathrooms and a small sitting-room which, within a very short time, was to become the hub of the house.

Rosamund was half awakened early on the morning after their arrival at Lindacres by the sound of a door shutting near at hand. For several moments she lay still, bewildered by her unfamiliar surroundings. Then memory flooded back and she buried her face in her pillow.

It couldn’t be true! Two people as much in love as she and John had surely been couldn’t become so terribly estranged within a few hours of being married! It didn’t make sense.

And then, on top of that, all the crazy events that had followed ! They had been pitchforked into a state of affairs that one would hardly expect to encounter once in a lifetime. And it had to happen on that particular day! And yet perhaps it had been just as well that it did. John and she had to forget their own differences in order to take a firm grip on a situation that was completely out of hand. To them had fallen the task not only of dealing with practical problems, but also with very personal ones, particularly where conflicting claims to authority had arisen.

By the end of the day, they had dealt with everything even if only on a temporary basis, and Rosamund for one had felt utterly exhausted as a result. Exhausted and oddly empty of all emotion. Too much had happened in too short a time. It was as if a careless photographer had taken several exposures on the same negative. The result was blurred—meaningless.

But now—she sat up in bed, hugging her knees—here was a new day to be faced. What would it bring? Could it bring anything except more confusion and more heartache? And if it did, could she find the courage and the wisdom to deal with it?

She had told John that she loved him and that she would go on loving him. That had been nothing less than the absolute truth—but how could she prove it to him?

She pondered deeply, unable to find a simple solution to such a complex problem. Then, from nowhere, it seemed, a quotation came into her mind.

“To
thine own self be true,

And it must follow
,
as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

“Yes, that’s it!” she told herself, unconscious that she spoke aloud. “I’ve got to be absolutely honest. That means I’ve got to be
myself
as I really am, no pretence because it seems as if it might be expedient—that would be cheating John—and myself. And surely, what he must want to know for sure is that I
am
the girl he believed me to be when he asked me to marry him!” She sighed deeply. “But it won’t always be easy—and it won’t be quick—”

A light tap on the door interrupted her thoughts. John?

But in answer to her summons, Mrs. Brickwell came in carrying a small tray.

“Good morning, madam,” she said briskly. “I’ve brought your tea myself because I thought it might be advisable if we discussed one or two things—”

“Good morning, Mrs. Brickwell,” Rosamund said pleasantly though with a sinking heart. Problems so early! Still, better get it over. “By all means tell me what’s wrong.”

“Not exactly wrong, madam,” Mrs. Brickwell explained rather diffidently as she handed over the tray. “It’s—well, it’s about clothes. I mean, seeing that you and Mr. John hadn’t planned to stay here and consequently brought no luggage I thought perhaps you might prefer to wear something—a little different—”

“How very kind and thoughtful of you, Mrs. Brickwell,” Rosamund said with very real gratitude. “And have you found something that will do?”

“It’s been a bit difficult, madam,” Mrs. Brickwell explained. "You see, you’re rather tall and very slim—in fact,” apologetically. “All I could find was a blue nylon button-through overall. It’s a very nice one and quite new—”

“That will do splendidly,” Rosamund told her serenely. “Of course, if we decide to stay on for a time, and I think Mr. John may feel that it’s necessary, then I must see about getting my own clothes—” she stopped short.

But that meant going back to the canal—to the place where John and she had been so happy. How could she bear to do that? How
could
she! She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Or else perhaps I could buy a few things more or less locally?”

“Well, you could,” Mrs. Brickwell admitted doubtfully. “But if you don’t mind me pointing it out, madam, I think you’re going to be very busy today.”

“I think so, too,” Rosamund agreed. “There are bound to be a lot more decisions to be made. But—” she gave Mrs. Brickwell a quick, enquiring look—“I think you’ve got something particular in mind, haven’t you, Mrs. Brickwell. What is it?”

“Well, actually, it’s Cook,” Mrs. Brickwell explained. “You see, as we understand it, the cook from the Orphanage is coming over here to work. And while that’s only fair to Cook, seeing that she can hardly be expected to cope with all the extra work, you know what they say about two women working in one kitchen !”

“I do, indeed,” Rosamund said feelingly. She considered for a moment. “Do you know anything about the Orphanage cook? I mean, is she younger than our cook?”

“Oh yes, madam, considerably, I’d say. And of course, only experienced in what you might call institution cooking—which is very different from the standard here !”

“I expect so,” Rosamund agreed reflectively. “Well, perhaps Cook would like to discuss the matter with me? She may have a solution to the difficulty. Ask her to come and see me after breakfast. In the little sitting room here, please. There’s less likelihood of us being disturbed. Will you ask her to do that?”

“Certainly, madam.” There was an unmistakable note of respect in Mrs. Brickwell’s voice. Really, young though she was and, so far as one could judge from what the newspapers said, not particularly
anybody,
Mr. John’s wife certainly knew how to handle domestic problems! And she was to have further confirmation of this within a few moments. For, just as she was leaving the room, she turned with a vexed click of the tongue.

“I’m sorry, madam. I almost forgot to give you a message from Mr. John. He has gone over to the Orphanage to see just what the extent of the damage is and he said not to wait breakfast as he wasn’t sure how long he’d be.”

“I see,” Rosamund said composedly. “Thank you, Mrs. Brickwell. But in future, if ever you have a message for me from Mr. John, will you please make a practice of delivering it at the first opportunity?”

"Yes, madam,” said a subdued Mrs. Brickwell. “I’m sorry—”

Rosamund smiled her acceptance of the apology and Mrs. Brickwell went resolving that when she gave Cook the message, she would also tell her not to try anything on because the new Mrs. Lindsay wouldn’t stand for any nonsense. Pleasant and sympathetic, yes, but a lady who knew her own mind and wasn’t afraid to speak it. And quite right, too!

It was almost noon before John returned. Rosamund had spent much of the morning in the little sitting room to which she had taken quite a liking. It was obviously planned to be a woman’s room, for the furniture, mostly really old, was elegant rather than sturdy. The armchairs and the seats of the smaller chairs were upholstered in soft green satin with a design in roses and satin bows on it. The curtains, though plain, toned with the green of the chairs and the polished floor had a few good rugs on it. There were two walnut occasional tables, a walnut-framed mirror and a workmanlike little desk. On this were two telephones, one presumably the house phone.

Rosamund had her breakfast there—a very simple one, but beautifully served. Newspapers had been brought up with the tray and she glanced at two with a growing feeling of distaste. Aunt Ruth had been interviewed and she had said much as Rosamund had expected she would—it didn’t make reassuring reading. Then she had been visited, briefly, by Dr. Milward who had come to make sure that none of the children had suffered any harm, and for a longer period by Cook, a big, raw-boned Scotswoman who made the little room seem even smaller.

When John arrived, Rosamund was writing to Miss Alice.

“They told me you were here,” he remarked casually. “Yes. I thought it was a good idea to keep out of everybody’s way as far possible until you had a chance to make any decisions. And I’ve found the room useful for interviewing people I really had to see—Dr. Milward and Cook. I hope you don’t mind me taking possession of it like this?”

“Very sensible.” John sat down in one of the armchairs, his long legs stretched out straight, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. “It’s essentially a woman’s room, as you’ve probably realised. Bound to be. My mother planned and furnished it. She said she had to have one room where she didn’t rattle about like the last pea in a pod. It rather vexed my father. You see—” there was a dry note in his voice—“he liked everything to be on a grandiose scale!”

“I see,” Rosamund said, non-committally, as she thought.

He looked at her curiously.

“I gather you agree with my mother,” he commented. “Don’t you like the house?”

“I think that the grounds—what I’ve seen of them—are outstandingly beautiful,” Rosamund told him. “But the, house—”

“Yes?” He evidently meant to have a direct reply to his question.

“You referred to it as a soap-works,” she reminded him. “I don’t agree with you there. To me, it suggests a hotel. A very good hotel—but not by any stretch of the imagination a home.” She deliberately changed the topic of conversation. “How did you get on at the Orphanage? Is it very badly damaged?”

“Just about gutted,” John replied crisply. “And small wonder! The place should have been condemned as dangerous years ago, and to have had masses of children living there when the fire risk was so high was utterly infamous! How the devil it comes about that there were no casualties, I don’t understand. Well, there’s one consolation. The damage is so bad that they’ll have to rebuild now, and a good job, too! But of course it will take time—”

“So you will let them stay on here?” It could have been a question or a statement. John took it as the former.

“Nothing else for it. I met Sir George Parks over there—he’s one of the Governors—and he told me that one of the difficulties about rebuilding was the problem of where to put the children during that time. Well, I’m prepared to consider the possibility of them staying here for, say, a year. But I’m not willing simply to hand over, leaving them to their own devices—not after the chaos of last night. They’d wreck the place through sheer inefficiency. And though apparently neither of us like it, I see no reason why I should allow that. But it will mean that we have to stay here for a time until we’re satisfied that it’s properly organised. Will you mind?”

“No.”

John accepted her brief reply without comment, and when he spoke again, it was of a different matter.

“You said you’d had visits from Milward and Cook. I suppose Milward’s was simply a courtesy visit, but Cook—I imagine she was on the warpath! There’s going to be trouble in the kitchen, mark my words!”

“I don’t think so,” Rosamund told him serenely.

John’s brows lifted.

"You don’t? You don’t know Cook! Superb at her job, but a tartar if ever there was one!”

“Is she? I found her very co-operative.”

John stared unbelievingly at her.

“Did you, indeed!” he ejaculated. “And just what form did her co-operation take?”

“She told me that there are two kitchens—the big one that was used when there was a big house-party, and a smaller one for when there wasn’t.”

"Yes, that’s true,” John acknowledged. “But—”

“And she suggested that they should use the big one while she had the smaller one,” Rosamund explained.

"She
suggested that? Oh, come, that’s just not on! Why, even if she doesn’t always use it, the big kitchen is the pride of her life! She’d never give it up without a terrific struggle. Now tell me, just what really happened!”

“Why not ask Cook?” Rosamund suggested coolly with a significance which was not lost on John. As clearly as if she had spoken the words, she was telling him that if he didn’t believe her, he could easily check her statement. It was up to him.

John thrust his fingers through his hair in a familiar, boyish way that caught at Rosamund’s heart. So many times in the past she had seen him make that gesture when he was puzzled or in any way put out. Then, it had usually been accompanied with a rueful grin—but he was not smiling now.

“I expressed myself badly.” From the stiff way in which he spoke it was clear that he found even so inadequate an apology difficult to make. “But knowing Cook, I anticipated that you must have found her difficult to deal with. Consequently, I shall be interested to know what led up to her making the suggestion.”