nished
Jill, with a benevolent nod.

I proceeded to annotate Jill's mischievous remarks with much severity.
I left Mr. Hamilton alone, with the exception of a brief sentence; I
assured Lesbia that he was not ugly, but only peculiar-looking, and that
he was an intellectual, earnest-minded man who had known much trouble.
Jill made a wry face, but did not dare to contradict me.

'As for his sister Gladys,' I went on, 'she is simply a most beautiful
girl, whose health has failed a little from a great shock'; here Jill and
Lesbia both looked curious, but I showed no intention of enlightening
them. 'She is a little too sad and quiet for Jill's taste,' I continued,
'and she is also somewhat reserved in manner, but when she likes a person
thoroughly she is charming.'

I went on a little longer in this strain, until I had thoroughly
vindicated my favourite from Jill's aspersion.

'You are very fond of her, Ursula: your eyes soften as you talk of her.
I should like to see this wonderful Gladys.'

'You must see her one day,' I rejoined; and then the gong sounded, and
Lesbia jumped up in a fright, because she said she would keep her mother
waiting, and Jill hurried off to her room to dress.

We had what Jill called a picnic dinner in Uncle Brian's study. Every one
enjoyed it but Clayton, who seemed rather put out by the disorganised
state of the house, and who was always getting helplessly wedged in
between the escritoire and the table. We would have much rather waited on
ourselves, and we wished Mrs. Martin had forgone the usual number of
courses. When it was over we all went into the long drawing-room, and
Jill played soft snatches of Chopin, while Sara and Colonel Ferguson
whispered together on the dark balcony.

Mrs. Fullerton and Lesbia joined us later on, and then Colonel Ferguson
took his leave. I thought Sara looked a little quiet and subdued when she
joined us; her gay chatter had died away, her eyes were a little
plaintive. When we had said good-night, and Jill and I were passing down
the corridor hand in hand, we could hear voices from Aunt Philippa's
room. Through the half-opened door I caught a glimpse of Sara: she was
kneeling by her mother's chair, with her head on Aunt Philippa's
shoulder. Was she bidding a tearful regret to her old happy life? I
wondered; was she looking forward with natural shrinking and a little
fear to the new responsibility that awaited her on the morrow? It was the
mother who was talki