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don’t know him really so very well. He was my father’s sister’s husband, not a real relation. I think he’s always been rather a rolling stone and got into trouble once or twice. You know the way people talk about someone and sort of hint things.”
    “Not socially acceptable?” I asked. “Bad lot?”
    “Oh, nothing really bad I think, but he used to get into scrapes, I believe. Financial ones. And trustees and lawyers and people used to have to get him out of them. Pay up for things.”
    “That’s it,” I said. “He’s the bad hat of the family. I expect I’d get on better with him than I would with the paragon Greta.”
    “He can make himself very agreeable when he likes,” said Ellie. “He’s good company.”
    “But you don’t really like him?” I asked sharply.
    “I think I do…It’s just that sometimes, oh I can’t explain it. I just feel I don’t know what he’s thinking or planning.”
    “One of our planners, is he?”
    “I don’t know what he’s really like,” said Ellie again.
    She didn’t ever suggest that I should meet any of her family. I wondered sometimes if I ought to say something about it myself. I didn’t know how she felt about the subject. I asked her straight out at last.
    “Look here, Ellie,” I said, “do you think I ought to—meet your family or would you rather I didn’t?”
    “I don’t want you to meet them,” she said at once.
    “I know I’m not much—” I said.
    “I don’t mean it that way, not a bit! I mean they’d make a fuss. I can’t stand a fuss.”
    “I sometimes feel,” I said, “that this is rather a hole and corner business. It puts me in a rather bad light, don’t you think?”
    “I’m old enough to have my own friends,” said Ellie. “I’m nearly twenty-one. When I am twenty-one I can have my own friends and nobody can stop me. But now you see—well, as I say there’d be a terrible fuss and they’d cart me off somewhere so that I couldn’t meet you. There’d be—oh do, do let’s go on as we are now.”
    “Suits me if it suits you,” I said. “I just didn’t want to be, well, too underhand about everything.”
    “It’s not being underhand. It’s just having a friend one can talk to and say things to. It’s someone one can—” she smiled suddenly, “one can make-believe with. You don’t know how wonderful that is.”
    Yes, there was a lot of that—make-believe! More and more our times together were to turn out that way. Sometimes it was me. More often it was Ellie who’d say, “Let’s suppose that we’ve bought Gipsy’s Acre and that we’re building a house there.”
    I had told her a lot about Santonix and about the houses he’d built. I tried to describe to her the kind of houses they were and the way he thought about things. I don’t think I described it very well because I’m not good at describing things. Ellie no doubt had her own picture of the house—our house. We didn’t say “our house” but we knew that’s what we meant….
    So for over a week I wasn’t to see Ellie. I had taken out what savings I had (there weren’t many), and I’d bought her a little green shamrock ring made of some Irish bog stone. I’d given it to her for a birthday present and she’d loved it and looked very happy.
    “It’s beautiful,” she said.
    She didn’t wear much jewellery and when she did I had no doubt it was real diamonds and emeralds and things like that but she liked my Irish ring.
    “It will be the birthday present I like best,” she said.
    Then I got a hurried note from her. She was going abroad with her family to the South of France immediately after her birthday.
    “But don’t worry,” she wrote, “we shall be back again in two or three weeks” time, on our way to America this time. But anyway we’ll meet again then. I’ve got something special I want to talk to you about.”
    I felt restless and ill at ease not seeing Ellie and knowing she’d gone abroad to France. I had a bit of