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He couldn’t have said that! At least, not in that way, as if he had meant it. Oh, but of course it was just for Sister’s benefit!

She went out of the kiosk—and came face to face with Miss Prosser. Sheer recklessness and a strange conviction that Martin stood between her and any trouble took possession of her.

“Hallo, Miss Prosser, I’ve got some news for you!” she said gaily.

“Indeed!” Miss Prosser’s odd eyes narrowed. She wasn’t used to being
given
news like this and instinctively wondered what lay behind the gesture. “And pleasant news, I gather from your manner!”

“Very!” Fenella said emphatically. “I’m engaged!”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Miss Prosser declared. “Though not, of course, surprised. After all, it’s news we’ve all been expecting to hear for some years now.”

“Years?” Fenella repeated, deliberately widening her eyes. She knew perfectly well what Miss Prosser meant, but had no intention of admitting it. “But I haven’t known him as long as that! Only a matter of a few weeks! ”

“Weeks?” Miss Prosser repeated blankly. “But surely you and Mr. Anthony—”

Fenella laughed, and even to her own critical ears it sounded a perfectly natural effort.

“Anthony?” She shook her head. “But surely you don’t imagine I’m engaged to
Anthony!
”

“Naturally I did,” Miss Prosser sounded quite huffy as if Fenella had deliberately misled her. And then, sharply: “Then if it isn’t him, who is it, may I ask?”

“Martin Adair,” Fenella said softly. “We got engaged this afternoon.”

And had the satisfaction of seeing that, surely for the first time in her life, Miss Prosser was so taken aback as to be rendered speechless.

Fenella reached Lyon House to find that both Anthony and her aunt were out. Anthony, she was told, had gone to Lostwithiel to collect some day-old chicks and Mrs. Trevose was paying a call on the Rector’s wife. That was something she hadn’t reckoned on, and not unnaturally, since she had been keyed up for the interview, she was conscious of a sense of anti-climax.

However, there was nothing she could do about it save possess herself in such patience as she could find. She sat down at her desk and hardly realising what she doing, picked up a pencil and began to doodle on a sheet of paper. At first she drew little but formal patterns. Then, almost as if her hand was guided by a force stronger than herself, she began to draw the head of a man. It was an impressionistic effort, but when it was finished, she stared at it incredulously, knowing that it was the best thing she had ever done. Martin’s face fairly leapt from the page—

Suddenly the door of her study burst open and instinctively Fenella pulled another sheet of paper over what she had drawn. She didn’t want either Anthony or Aunt Gina to see—

But it was neither of them who stood there. It was Rosemary and it was very clear that she was in a state of considerable agitation.

“Fenella, it’s all over the place that you’re engaged to Martin!” she burst out. “Is it true?”

“Yes,” Fenella said steadily. “We settled it this afternoon.”

“But I went to see Martin this afternoon and he didn’t say anything about it! ” Rosemary protested.

Fenella heard the note of disbelief in Rosemary’s voice and recognised it for the danger signal that it was.

She had hoped that, without telling an actual lie, she would be able to give the impression that she had accepted Martin’s proposal at the time he had made it in the hospital. That way, neither Aunt Gina nor Anthony could possibly suspect that she had overheard their earlier conversation. But now, if Rosemary had seen him between when she had left the hospital and when she had telephoned Martin, it was going to be difficult— “When did you see Martin?” Fenella asked as steadily as she could manage.

“Oh, about three o’clock, I suppose,” Rosemary replied.

Unconsciously Fenella drew a little breath of relief.

“Oh well, it hadn’t happened then,” she explained equably. “It must have been about—Oh, I should think a quarter past four when I got to the hospital. Something like that. So that explains it, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” Rosemary asked deliberately. She drew up a chair on the opposite side of the desk so that she was facing Fenella. “Fm not so sure that it does. Somehow, I got the impression that you were afraid I’d been to see him
after
you did!”

“Did you?” Fenella shrugged her shoulders, “I wonder why?”

Rosemary didn’t answer the question. Instead, she said thoughtfully:

“You’ve changed a lot since I left Fairhaven, Fenella.”

“I expect I have,” Fenella agreed. “In fact, I remember thinking, when I heard you were coming back, that you’d find me very much more changed than I would find you because I’ve grown up in the meantime. But now I don’t think I was right. You’ve changed most, Rosemary! ”

It was a challenge which she hoped would persuade Rosemary that if she didn’t want people to pry into her affairs, she mustn’t expect to be at liberty to pry into theirs. But either Rosemary didn’t see her danger or she was prepared to risk it.

“Quite likely,” she agreed coolly. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that you have changed a lot!”

“Oh? In what way?” Fenella asked for want of anything else to say.

“You’ve always been so transparently honest,” Rosemary explained slowly. “Now Pm not so sure that you are!”

Fenella laughed uncertainly.

“But, Rosemary, if transparent honesty can be embarrassing in a child—and it certainly can—in an adult, it’s a positive menace! One does have to learn a little discretion.”

“But I’m not comparing you so much as a child with what you are now,” Rosemary told her. “I was thinking of the day of your garden party. Then, apart from having grown extremely pretty, I was thinking how little you had changed—it was so easy to see that you still adored Anthony, though in a very different way from when you were a child. Now you’re engaged to Martin. Do you wonder I’m curious?”

Fenella stood up and pushed her chair back so roughly that it almost fell over.

'“Rosemary, old friends are always allowed a lot of liberty, and one likes to assume that their curiosity is the outcome of genuine interest. But you’ve gone too far,” she said coldly. “So far, in fact, that I think I’m quite justified in asking if your interest
is
on my account or Martin’s. Just what
is
he to you?”

“A very good friend,” Rosemary stood up and faced Fenella without flinching. “Perhaps the best one I’ve ever had. And so I don’t want him to be fobbed off with second best. Surely you can understand that?”

It was all Fenella could do to keep her eyelids from fluttering down to hide what Rosemary might read in her eyes. She was so near to the truth—

“Don’t you think that’s Martin’s business—and mine?” she fenced.

“I’ll tell you who
will
make it his business,” Rosemary retorted, ignoring the question. “Anthony! He won’t be at all pleased over this.”

“No?” Anger at Rosemary’s bluntness was getting the better of Fenella to such a degree that she was becoming increasingly reckless. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, I gather that an engagement between you and him has been a foregone conclusion for years—” Rosemary explained, and now it seemed to Fenella she was not quite so sure of herself.

“Oh yes, I know,” she shrugged. “So does Anthony. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so absurd! ”

“Absurd?” Rosemary repeated, obviously very much surprised. “But, Fenella—”

“No,” Fenella interrupted firmly. “I’m not going to discuss my affairs with you any more, Rosemary. At least, not unless you tell
me
something! ”

Rosemary said nothing, but her expression became very guarded.

“It’s just this,” Fenella said deliberately. “I want to know why you’ve come back to Fairhaven. Is it because of Martin being here—or Anthony?”

There was a long moment’s pause before Rosemary replied. When she did it was with a bitterness that Fenella found painfully convincing.

“What you really mean, Fenella, is—have I come back to Fairhaven with the idea of a second marriage in mind? Well, I haven’t. I’ve already told you that there can be no question of a fresh start for me because I haven’t the courage to take a chance—if it was offered to me. You see, my marriage was an utter failure. It’s robbed me of all my self-confidence and as a result, I’m playing safe! I’m determined never to give anybody the power to—”

She bit her lip, turned sharply, and before Fenella could find anything to say, had gone out of the room.

Mrs. Trevose came back ahead of Anthony, and Fenella hesitated. Should she tell her aunt of her engagement to Martin at once, or should she wait until Anthony came back and then tell them both together?

In fact she had no choice, for as soon as Mrs. Trevose had freshened herself up after the hot walk from the Rectory, she went along the corridor and opened the door of Fenella’s study. Fenella, who had been staring irresolutely out of the window, turned to face her. _ “I’m glad you’re here, Fenella,” Mrs. Trevose said ominously, “because when I was at the Rectory, Mrs. Enderby had a telephone call which concerned you.” She paused significantly. “I expect you can guess what it was all about?”

“My engagement to Martin, I suppose.” Despite herself, Fenella found it difficult to keep her voice steady and as a result there was a hint of defiance in her manner.

“Yes. Is it true?”

“Quite true,” Fenella said firmly.

“I see.” Mrs. Trevose sat down at the desk and rested her chin on the palm of her hand. “And it didn’t occur to you that it was in somewhat questionable taste for you to have made the news public before telling Anthony and me? Or did you do it that way purposely because you knew how unwelcome the news would be to us and so you cut the ground from under our feet?”

Fenella drew a deep breath. If Aunt Gina had expressed herself differently, given evidence of real, loving concern, she would have found it difficult to maintain her resistance. As it was, that note of acerbity which had crept into her aunt’s voice stung her to Martin’s defence.

“Why should it be unwelcome news?” she asked, her chin in the air. “Anybody would think that Martin was a thoroughly undesirable person—”

“And so he is, from an adult point of view,” Mrs. Trevose said scathingly. “A man about whom we know nothing of a personal nature which is of any credit to him—”

“That isn’t fair!” Fenella burst out passionately. ‘You may not know very
much
about him, but what can you possibly have
against
him?”

“Several things,” Mrs. Trevose said coldly, and enumerated them on her fingers. “That he took advantage of his previous acquaintance with Rosemary to scrape acquaintance with us—”

“No, it was Rosemary who insisted on him coming,” Fenella reminded her quickly. “I heard Lady Lancing tell you so—”

“Then, having made your acquaintance, he deliberately persuaded you that you ought to get a job so that you could be independent of the people who had loved and cared for you so long—'' Mrs. Trevose swept on just as if Fenella had not spoken.

Fenella flinched. Put like that, it did sound as if she’d been most unpleasantly ungrateful. But it was so utterly impossible to explain what lay behind her actions, to Aunt Gina of all people !

“And,” Mrs. Trevose continued, “worst of all, he has persuaded you, a young and inexperienced girl, to promise to marry him, and that despite the fact that he must realise for your name to be linked with his in this manner is likely to expose you to physical danger!"

“Is it?” Fenella said doubtfully. “I don’t think that’s of a necessity true, you know. I think it all depends on
why
Martin was attacked. And until the police find out who did it, I don’t see that one can say for sure.”

Mrs. Trevose bit her lip, almost in tears. She had, she was perfectly well aware, said too much—certainly far more than she had meant to. But it had been a singularly trying day, she excused herself. First of all, Anthony’s categorical refusal to make any attempt to prevent a closer acquaintance between Martin and Fenella—and even worse, his reasons for taking that attitude. He had really shocked her. Then, at the Rectory, to hear the news, not from Fenella herself but at second or third hand from Mrs. Enderby! She had felt utterly humiliated.

And now, although she had tried to make Fenella understand that she was truly concerned about this Adair man, she knew that she’d only succeeded in creating a terrible gulf between herself and the girl she had come to regard as her daughter.

And it was not as if there was any selfishness behind her desire to protect Fenella. To Gina Trevose, the most important thing in life was to have
roots
—the sense of there being a niche which belonged to you and where you felt secure and at home.

In childhood that meant being part of a family where deep affection ruled and where, though there hadn’t been anything approaching wealth, there had been enough money to provide reasonable comfort and freedom from anxiety. Then, when she had grown up, she had married Hugh Trevose, whom she had known all her life. With him she had found great happiness and the wonderful knowledge that she was cherished.

When Hugh had died, she had felt that she couldn’t go on. But of course she had to, for Fenella’s sake since now only she stood between her and the insecurity which Gina was convinced was the most appalling thing that a child could experience.

Then had come Anthony’s offer of a home for them both—and how could one help dreaming and hoping that two such dear people would find their happiness together?

Now, short of a miracle, it was clear that would never happen. Anthony would either marry a thoroughly selfish girl who had already in the past almost broken his heart—or he would remain a bachelor.