he garden with Maisie, the long innocent conversation coming back
and back; Maisie's sweetness haunting her, known now and remembered.
Maisie walking in the garden among the wall flowers and tulips, between
the clipped walls of yew, showing Anne her flowers. She stooped to lift
their faces, to caress them with her little thin white fingers.

"I don't know why I'm showing you round," she said; "you know it all
much better than I do."

"Oh, well, I used to come here a lot when I was little. I sort of lived
here."

Maisie's eyes listened, utterly attentive.

"You knew Jerrold, then, when he was little, too?"

"Yes. He was eight when I was five."

"Do you remember what he was like?"

"Yes."

Maisie waited to see whether Anne were going on or not, but as Anne
stopped dead she went on herself.

"I wish _I_'d known Jerry all the time like that. I wish I remembered
running about and playing with him.... You were Jerrold's friend,
weren't you?"

"And Elliot's and Colin's."

The lying had begun. Falsehood by implication. And to this creature of
palpable truth.

"Somehow, I've always thought of you as Jerrold's most. That's what
makes me feel as if you were mine, as if I'd known you quite a long
time. You see, he's told me things about you."

"Has he?"

Anne's voice was as dull and flat as she could make it. If only Maisie
would leave off talking about Jerrold, making her lie.

"I've wanted to know you more than anybody I've ever heard of. There are
heaps of things I want to say to you." She stooped to pick the last
tulip of the bunch she was gathering for Anne. "I think it was perfectly
splendid of you the way you looked after Colin. And the way you've
looked after Jerry's land for him."

"That was nothing. I was very glad to do it for Jerrold, but it was my
job, anyway."

"Well, you've saved Colin. And you've saved the land. What's more, I
believe you've saved Jerrold."

"How do you mean, 'saved' him? I didn't know he wanted saving."

"He did, rather. I mean you've made him care about the estate. He didn't
care a rap about it till he came down here this last time. You've found
his job for him."

"He'd have found it himself all right without me."

"I'm not so sure. We were awfully worried about him after the war. He
was all at a loose end without anything to do. And dreadfully restless.
We thought he'd never settle to anything again. And I was afraid he'd
want to live in London."

"I don't think he'