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characteristic of him but said no more except, “She has rather a sensible air, though I cannot say as much for her scarlet and gold dress, uncommon garish for a God-fearing maiden.” The music and dancing stopped suddenly. John walked to the centre of the Hall and greeted his father, who let out a roar of delight and embraced him heartily. “Welcome, welcome, my son! A splendid surprise! We have company, you see, to honour the King’s birthday. My Lord and Lady deVere are here, and with them the Tyndals. Let me present you at once.”
    “It will give me much pleasure,” said John and he smiled.
    His sisters watched him with astonishment. Lucy, whom John had often urged to beware of the world, had been ready to deny all pleasure in this festivity, and point out that she was but obeying their father’s regrettable orders, but she saw that this denial would not be necessary. John showed no signs of disapproval and was chatting easily with the deVeres and Tyndals. He fetched a cup of wine and presented it to Mistress Margaret, and he even drank some himself, which further amazed Lucy since he had been for some months denouncing wine as the Devil’s spittle. Anne saw deeper into her brother. From childhood he had been prone to sudden variations of mood, but it was the time he had spent at Trinity College in Cambridge and met many gentlemen under Puritan influence which had given these moods so strong a religious tinge. That and the deaths of his two wives, of course, thought Anne sighing. Suddenly she looked at her brother and Mistress Tyndal with sharp attention.
    Margaret and John had seated themselves on a cushioned bench, and they were talking gravely. The gravity did not preclude another element no discerning woman could have missed. John’s long, rather harsh face showed an unmistakable desire to please, while about Margaret there was a suggestion of coquetry. Her plump cheeks were pink, her fingers twisted a little scented pomander she wore at her girdle and her round bosom beneath the scarlet taffeta rose and fell more rapidly than recovery from the dancing would explain.
    “Is it possible?” Anne murmured . . . “so soon and so quickly . . .?” And knew that it was. John had not loved Mary Forth, his first wife, whom he had married at seventeen, and who had been some years older, but for little Thomasine Clopton, his second, he had shown affection and grief. Had felt them too, she knew - John was no hypocrite. It was simply the practical way of men, she thought bitterly. A wife is needed - as house directress, as mother to the children, as purveyor of yet more land and property, as ... ah yes, as the fulfiller of one role above all. She looked at the sensual red curves of John’s mouth between the russet moustache and beard, at the thin flare of his nostrils. It is better to marry than to burn, she thought, and how willingly John would again follow that woman-despising apostle’s advice.
    “Mistress Fones,” said a thick voice beside her. “Will you pledge me in a cup of wine?” She started and looked up at Lord deVere, who stood in front of her, swaying a little. “Come, sweetheart, why so dismal?” he added, putting his thick sweating hand on her neck. “Will you show me the Manor gallery? I’ve heard you have a portrait by King Harry’s painter fellow, Holbein.”
    “I beg you will forgive me, my lord,” said Anne, moving back. “I’ve not been well. I’m mortal weary.”
    DeVere’s eyes narrowed, a glint came into them. “Mealy-mouthed little rustic,” he said below his breath. He turned on his silver heel and stalked away to Adam whom he approached with a smile. “Well, sir, what say you to the gaming table? At court now they are hot for ‘Trump’. Have you the cards? If not, my lackey will have brought a deck.”
    Adam’s ruddy face puckered with dismay; hospitable and merry he might be, and also desirous of pleasing his noble guest, but he could not countenance gaming in his