d appear so certain to him that she could never find
happiness in a marriage with Arthur Banks.

And with that thought a suspicion of my late companion of the hill-top
leapt into my mind. He had hinted at some influence or "pull" over
Brenda's father that might perhaps be used in a last emergency, although
the use of it implied the taking of a slightly dishonourable advantage.
Was it not probable, I now wondered, that this influence was to be
obtained by working on Jervaise's too tender devotion to his daughter? Was
she, perhaps, to be urged as a last resource to bear on that gentle
weakness by threat or cajolery?

I began to wish that I had not been quite so friendly with Mr. Banks. I
had been led away by the scent and glamour of the night. Here, in this
Sunday morning breakfast-room, I was able for the first time to appreciate
the tragedy in its proper relation to the facts of life. I saw that
Brenda's rash impulsiveness might impose a quite horrible punishment on
her too-devoted father.

I turned away towards one of the window-seats. Miss Tattersall and Nora
Bailey were sitting together there, pretending a conversation while they
patiently awaited the coming of breakfast. Mrs. Jervaise was talking now
to her elder daughter; Frank was arguing some point with Gordon Hughes,
and as I felt unequal to offering comfort to the lonely head of the house,
so evidently wrapped in his sorrow, I preferred to range myself with the
fourth group. I thought it probable that the sympathies of those two young
women might at the moment most nearly correspond to my own.

I was surprised to be greeted by Miss Tattersall with what had all the
appearance of a discreetly covert wink, and I raised my eyebrows with that
air of half-jocular inquiry which I fancied she would expect from me. She
evaded the implied question, however, by asking me what time I "really got
to bed, after all."

"The sun was up before I went to sleep," I replied, to avoid the possible
embarrassment of her comments should I admit to having slept in the open
air; and then John and a female acolyte came in with the long-desired
material of breakfast.

"Good!" I commented softly. "I'm simply ravenous."

"Are you?" Miss Tattersall said. "You deserve to go without breakfast for
having missed prayers," and added in precisely the same undertone of
conventional commonplace, "I don't believe she came back at all last
night."

But, having thus piqued my curiosity, she ga