adow her and displace her in due course, but for the moment she was
a person whose good graces counted for something, and Cicely was quite
alive to the advantage of being in those good graces.

"It would be rather fun," she said, running over in her mind the
possibilities of the suggested supper-party.

"It would be jolly useful," put in Ronnie eagerly; "you could get all
sorts of interesting people together, and it would be an excellent
advertisement for Gorla."

Ronnie approved of supper-parties on principle, but he was also thinking
of the advantage which might accrue to the drawing-room concert which
Cicely had projected (with himself as the chief performer), if he could
be brought into contact with a wider circle of music patrons.

"I know it would be useful," said Cicely, "it would be almost historical;
there's no knowing who might not come to it--and things are dreadfully
slack in the entertaining line just now."

The ambitious note in her character was making itself felt at that
moment.

"Let's go down to the library, and work out a list of people to invite,"
said Ronnie.

A servant entered the room and made a brief announcement.

"Mr. Yeovil has arrived, madam."

"Bother," said Ronnie sulkily. "Now you'll cool off about that supper
party, and turn down Gorla and the rest of us."

It was certainly true that the supper already seemed a more difficult
proposition in Cicely's eyes than it had a moment or two ago.

"'You'll not forget my only daughter,
E'en though Saphia has crossed the sea,'"

quoted Tony, with mocking laughter in his voice and eyes.

Cicely went down to greet her husband. She felt that she was probably
very glad that he was home once more; she was angry with herself for not
feeling greater certainty on the point. Even the well-beloved, however,
can select the wrong moment for return. If Cicely Yeovil's heart was
like a singing-bird, it was of a kind that has frequent lapses into
silence.

CHAPTER II: THE HOMECOMING

Murrey Yeovil got out of the boat-train at Victoria Station, and stood
waiting, in an attitude something between listlessness and impatience,
while a porter dragged his light travelling kit out of the railway
carriage and went in search of his heavier baggage with a hand-truck.
Yeovil was a grey-faced young man, with restless eyes, and a rather
wistful mouth, and an air of lassitude that was evidently only a
temporary characteristic. The hot dusty