y were
locked out of their bedrooms, unable to get at their wardrobes,
their soaps and sponges and brushes, his collars, her hairpins,
all those trifles of the toilette without which civilized man can
scarcely feel himself civilized. Most of these wants the
vicarage could supply; but to reach the vicarage they had to
cross the road. Lawrence got up and stood looking down at Laura.
"Can you trust your maid?"

"Trust her? I can't trust her not to gossip. She's a nice girl
and a very good maid, but I've only had her a year."

"Silly question! One doesn't trust servants nowadays. My man's
a scamp, but I can depend on him up to a certain point because I
pay him well. Anyhow we must make the best of a bad job. If I
cut straight down from here I shall get into the tradesmen's
drive, shan't I?"

"But you can't go to the back door!"

"Apparently I can't go to the front," said Lawrence with his
wintry smile. He promised himself to go to the front by and by,
but not while Laura was shivering in torn clothes under a bush.

"But what are you going to do?"

"Simply to get us a few necessaries of life. You can't be seen
like this, and you can't stand here forever, catching cold with
next to nothing on: besides, you've had no food since five
o'clock this morning--and not much then."

"But the servants--if they have orders--"

"Servants!" He laughed.

"But you don't mean to force your way in?"

"Not past Bernard, dear. Don't be afraid: I shall skulk in by
the rear."

It was easy to say "Don't be afraid": doubly easy for Lawrence,
who had never known Bernard's darker temper. But there was no
coward blood in Mrs. Clowes, and she steadied herself under the
rallying influence of Hyde's firm look and tone.

"Go, then, but don't be long. And, Lawrence promise me. . ."

"Anything, dear."

"You won't touch Bernard, will you?" Lawrence was dumb, from wonder,
not from indecision. "No one can do that," said Laura under her
breath. "Oh, I know you wouldn't dream of it. But yet--if he
insulted you, if he struck you . . . if he insulted me. . . ?"

"No, on my honour."

He touched her hand with his lips--a ceremony performed by
Lawrence only once beforehand in what different circumstances!--
and left her: more like a winter butterfly than ever, with her
shining hair, pale face, and gallant eyes, and the silver threads
of her embroidered skirt flowing round her over the sunburnt
turf.

Wanhope was an old-fashio