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There he sat, not taking much part in the conversation, the very embodiment of fact as opposed to fancy—and rather grim fact, at that.
    She was sorry now that she had even mentioned Richard to him. Not that she was the least disquieted by his tasteless and ill-judged criticism. Only she wished that she had not even given him the satisfaction of an opportunity for making it.
    After tea they were shown round the garden and small grounds, with which the children declared themselves enchanted. Still there was no opportunity for what Hope called “real talk,” and, while her mind was full of tormenting doubts and anxieties for the future, she found herself chatting pleasantly with Mrs. Tamberly on the cultivation of herbaceous borders.
    ‘It’s like trying to box with a feather bed,’ thought Hope. ‘But there are things which must be discussed. I suppose Doctor Tamberly will deign to say something else to me later.’
    She was right. Dr. Tamberly did. But that was when the children were in bed, and Mrs. Tamberly sat stitching at an elaborate piece of tapestry work, with an air of languid detachment which precluded any possibility of drawing her into the conversation.
    In contrast to his mother’s persistent air of vagueness — or perhaps because of it—Errol Tamberly was wont to clothe his thoughts and intentions in short, blunt sentences. And he outlined his arrangements—Hope hardly felt they could be called suggestions—for the children in the fewest possible words.
    They were to remain at their present schools and he would take over the whole question of fees and maintenance. During the holidays they were to come here, and might regard it in every way as their home. Hope would be welcome to visit them, but as her London flat was small—he paused, but made no reference to her proposed marriage — they would be better here in the country than staying with her, except for an odd night from time to time. That being so, it would be simplest for them to stay on here for their present holidays and not return to town with her.
    It was all perfectly common sense and reasonable. There was nothing to object to in it, but Hope wished it didn’t make her feel as though she were being politely but finally excluded. She had nothing to do but say “Yes” to everything, and certainly she was not expected to make any sort of protest.
    Well, there was no denying that it was in the best interests of the children—in her best interests too, considering her engagement. And, at the thought of that, Hope suddenly knew that what she wanted more than anything else was to get back to London as soon as possible, tell Richard what had happened and receive his laughing, loving assurance that everything was all right.
    She could leave the children here with a perfectly clear conscience. In fact—with a grimace she admitted the fact — she had no choice in the matter. But she herself could go back to London tomorrow—she had told Richard she hoped to get back by Sunday evening—and in less than twenty-four hours from now her anxieties would be at an end, the little tormenting fear would be stilled, and she and Richard would be discussing the plans for their marriage, on a reduced scale perhaps, but who cared about that?
    Looking up, she found Errol watching her once more in that disturbing way which suggested that he could make a good guess at her thoughts.
    “I agree with everything you say about the children. In fact, you’re being extraordinarily good and generous.”
    “Did it hurt to say that?” he enquired with a grim smile.
    She ignored the question and went on as steadily as she could.
    “As they seem to be so well settled, I think I’ll return to Town early tomorrow evening. I can send down the rest of their things or—or perhaps they’ll come up for the day and see me sometime soon. But I’d rather like to get back tomorrow.”
    “Of course,” he agreed dryly, before she could say anything casual about not wanting