them, though they
have offered it."

"I don't see why not," objected Magda. "They can't feel very badly about
it if they are willing to help you."

"Oh, no--they would, gladly. But Dan would hate it in the circumstances.
You can understand that, can't you?"--appealingly. "He wants to justify
himself--to prove that he can keep his own wife. He'd be too proud to
let me take anything from them."

"Storran of Stockleigh appears to be considerably less attractive than
his name," summed up Gillian, as, half an hour later, she and Magda
and Coppertop were seated round a rustic wooden table in the garden
partaking of a typical Devonshire tea with its concomitants of jam and
clotted cream.

"Apparently," she continued, "he has married 'above him.' Little Mrs.
Storran obviously comes of good stock, while I expect he himself is just
an ordinary sort of farmer and doesn't half appreciate her. Anyway, he
doesn't seem to consider her much."

Magda made no answer. Characteristically her interest in June Storran
had evaporated, pushed aside by something of more personal concern.

"This is the most restful, peaceful spot I've ever struck," she said,
leaning back with a sigh of pleasure. "Isn't it lovely, Gilly? There's
something homelike and friendly about the whole landscape--a sort of
_intimate_ feeling. I feel as if I'd known it all for years--and should
like to know it for years more! Don't they say Devon folk always want to
come home to die? I'm not surprised."

"Yes, it's very beautiful," agreed Gillian, her gaze resting contentedly
on the gracious curves of green and golden fields, broken here and there
by stretches of ploughed land glowing warmly red between the ripening
corn and short-cropped pasture.

"I believe I could be quite good here, Gillyflower," pursued Magda
reflectively. "Just live happily from one day to the next, breathing
this glorious air, and eating plain, simple food, and feeding those
adorable fluffy yellow balls Mrs. Storran calls chickens, and churning
butter and--"

Gillian's ringing, whole-hearted laughter checked this enthusiastic
epitome of the simple life.

"Never, Magda!" she asserted, shaking her head. "I'm quite expecting
you to get bored in about a week and to rush me off to Deauville or
somewhere of that ilk. And as to being 'good'--why, it isn't in you!"

"I'm not so sure." Magda rose and together they strolled over the grass
towards the house, Coppertop skirmishing happily behind t