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one will see us, where I can tell you a little of my love and the happiness we shall find together?”
    She moved away from him then, slowly and still with that grace which made nothing she did seem abrupt or ugly.
    “We must go in,” she said. “Breakfast will be waiting for you and my father will wonder where I am.”
    “You have not answered me,” Rodney cried hoarsely. “Where can we meet together, if only for a few moments?”
    “I do not know; it is impossible,” Phillida replied. She did not seem frightened so much as repelled by the idea. “We must go in,” she added firmly and before Rodney could plead with her again, she had moved towards the house and disappeared through the door from which she had come on to the terrace.
    He stared after her, frowning a little, his chin square set as it always was when he was opposed in anything he desired. He was not used to women refusing him. He told himself that was because he had had little to do in the past with virgins and maidens, and yet his pride told him this could not entirely account for Phillida’s reluctance.
    Moodily and in no good humour, he followed her into the house,
    All through the day that followed Rodney strove and manoeuvred to get his own way and be alone with Phillida. It seemed to him as if everyone was on his side and willing to help him save Phillida herself.
    When others were present, she was there in the room, composed and lovely, if, as always, a little silent and apart from the general hubbub of the family. But when they were not there, she, too, had vanished into some fastness where Rodney could not find her.
    Even Francis, usually obtuse where the family was concerned, realised that something was occurring and said to Lizbeth in a low voice,
    “What is Phillida playing at? She has refused to show Hawkhurst both the Picture Gallery and the Maze.”
    Lizbeth linked her arm through her brother’s and led him into the garden so that they should be out of earshot of the others.
    “If ever there was a reluctant sweetheart it is Phillida.”
    “ But why?” Francis asked. “’Tis time she was wed, she cannot wish to die an old maid.”
    “I do not understand her,” Lizbeth answered, “and never have. You would have thought she would have found Mister Hawkhurst attractive enough.”
    “Personally I find him a bore,” Francis answered. “I hate these hearty buccaneers, but women like such men and Phillida should be no exception.”
    Lizbeth shrugged her shoulders. She was looking unusually tidy and demure. Nanna had scolded her for going riding so early in the morning and had made her change into one of her best dresses and had braided her hair so tightly that even her most rebellious curls could not fight themselves free.
    She and Francis had reached the edge of the herb garden where the yew hedge divided it. They turned and looked back to where the rest of the family were seated around the sundial, Phillida busy with her embroidery, Catherine Gillingham watching Rodney’s efforts with a spiteful look on her face, Sir Harry, quite unaware of what was happening, telling story after story and laughing heartily at his own jokes.
    It was a pretty, domestic picture from where Lizbeth and Francis stood – if one was not aware of the undercurrents seething beneath the surface.
    “Walk with me to the gate,” Francis said hurriedly.
    “Why the gate?” Lizbeth asked.
    “I am going for a walk,” Francis replied in a voice which told Lizbeth all too clearly that something else was intended.
    “You are not,” she cried. “I know exactly where you are going – to see Dr. Keen and his daughter. Oh, Francis! I thought you had given them up!”
    “Why should I?” he asked sullenly. “’Tis no business of anyone else’s who are my friends.”
    “But Francis, Father has forbidden you to visit them. You know that Dr. Keen is suspected of having sympathies with Spain.”
    “It is a lie,” Francis said hotly. “Just because he lived