ming Quakerish cap ...
without any strings ... and--"it's a d----d shame," was the outcome of
all Captain Middleton's reflections.

"Would the man never go?" Jan wondered, when after a prolonged and
hilarious tea he followed the enraptured children back to the
drawing-room and did tricks with the fire-irons.

Meg had departed in order to get things ready for the night, and he hung
on in the hope that she would return. Vain hope; there was no sign of
her.

He told the children all about William Bloomsbury and exacted promises
that they would love him very much. He discussed, with many
interruptions from Fay, who wanted all his attention, the entire
countryside round about Wren's End; and, at last, as there seemed really
no chance of that extraordinary girl's return, he heaved his great
length out of his chair and bade his hostess a reluctant farewell
several times over.

In the passage he caught sight of Meg going from one room to another
with her arms full of little garments.

"Ah," he cried, striding towards her. "Good night, Miss Morton. I hope
we shall meet again soon," and he held out his hand.

Meg ignored the hand, her own arms were so full of clothes: "I'm afraid
that's not likely," she said, with unfeeling cheerfulness. "We all go
down to the country on Monday."

"Yes, yes, I know. Jolly part of the world it is, too. I expect I shall
be thereabouts a good deal this summer, my relations positively swarm in
that county."

"Good-bye," said Meg, and turned to go. Jan stood at the end of the
passage, holding the door open.

"I say, Miss Morton, you'll try and like my William, won't you?"

"I like all sensible animals," was Meg's response, and she vanished into
a bedroom.

CHAPTER XIV

PERPLEXITIES

"Don't you think it is very extraordinary that I have never had one line
from Hugo since the letter I got at Aden?" asked Jan.

It was Friday evening, the Indian mail was in, and there was a letter
from Peter--the fourth since her return.

"But you've heard of him from Mr. Ledgard," Meg pointed out.

"Only that he had gone to Karachi from Bombay just before Fay
died--surely he would see papers there. It seems so heartless never to
have written me a line--I can't believe it, somehow, even of Hugo--he
must be ill or something."

"Perhaps he was ashamed to write. Perhaps he felt you would simply
loathe him for being the cause of it all."

"I did, I do," Jan exclaimed; "but all the same he is t