o-night it was in the misty
half-light of the shining moon and the dying sun, the curious stillness
of the air so that the sounds and cries of the town came distinctly on
the wind, the scent of some wild flowers, the faint smell of the
chrysanthemums that Mary was wearing at her breast.

"By Jove, it's Cornwall," he said, drawing a great breath. He was
walking a little ahead with Mary, and he turned to her as she spoke.
She was walking with her head bent, and did not seem to hear him.
"What's up?" he said.

"Nothing," she answered, trying to smile.

"But there is," he insisted. "I'm not blind. I've bored you with my
worries. You might honour me with yours."

"There isn't anything really. One's foolish to mind, and, indeed, it's
not for myself that I care--but it's mother."

"What have they done?"

"They don't like us--none of them do. I don't know why they should; we
aren't, perhaps, very likeable. But it is cruel of them to show it.
Mother, you see, likes meeting people--we had it in London, friends I
mean, lots of them, and then when we came here we had none. We have
never had any from the beginning. We tried, perhaps a little too hard,
to have some. We gave little parties and they failed, and then people
began to think us peculiar, and if they once do that here you're done
for. Perhaps we didn't see it quite soon enough and we went on trying,
and then they began to snub us."

"Snub you?"

"Yes, you know the kind of thing. You saw that first day we met
you----"

"And it hurts?"

"Yes--for mother. She still tries; she doesn't see that it's no good,
and each time that she goes and calls, something happens and she comes
back like she did to-day. I don't suppose they mean to be unkind--it
is only that we are, you see, peculiar, and that doesn't do here.
Father wears funny clothes and never sees any one, and so they think
there must be something wrong----"

"It's a shame," he said indignantly.

"No," she answered, "it isn't really. It's one's own fault--only
sometimes I hate it all. Why couldn't we have stayed in London? We
had friends there, and father's clothes didn't matter. Here such
little things make such a big difference"--which was, Harry reflected,
a complete epitome of the life of Pendragon.

"I'm not whining," she went on. "We all have things that we don't
like, but when you're without a friend----"

"Not quite," he said; "you must count me." He stopped for a moment.
"You