s magnetism did not call
Rosemary's eyes to his; but she was as unconscious of his stare as he of
mine. He must have admired her; yet there was something deeper than
admiration; and I would have given a good deal to know what it
was--whether benevolent or otherwise. His expression, however, told no
tale beyond its intense interest.

There was a little feast after the wedding, with an imposing cake, and
everything that other, happier brides have. It seemed a mockery to drink
health to the newly married pair, knowing as we did that Ralston Murray
had been given three months at most to live. Yet we drank, and made a
brave pretence at all the conventional wedding merriment; for if we
hadn't laughed, some of us would have cried.

An hour later Major and Mrs. Murray started off on the first stage of
their journey to Devonshire. They went by car, a magnificent Rolls-Royce
rather like a travelling boudoir; and in another car was Murray's
nurse-valet, with the comfortable elderly maid I had found for Rosemary.

They were to travel at a moderate pace, to stay a night at Glastonbury,
and go on next morning to Ralston Old Manor, which they expected to
reach early in the afternoon. As for Jim and me, we were too keen on
seeing the dear old Abbey together, as our future home, to waste a
minute more than need be _en route_, no matter how beautiful the journey
by road.

Our packing had been done before the wedding, and we were in a fast
express tearing westward an hour after the Murrays had set off by car.

Ours had been such a long honeymoon--months in America--that outsiders
considered it over and done with long ago. We two knew that it wasn't
over and done with, and never would be, but we couldn't go about
proclaiming that fact; therefore we made no objection when Doctor
Jennings proposed travelling in the train with us. We reflected that, if
he were in the same train he would be in the same compartment, and so it
happened; but, though I didn't warm to the man, I was interested in
trying to study the character behind those brilliant eyes.

Some people's eyes seem to reveal their souls as through clear windows.
Other eyes conceal, as if they were imitation windows, made of mirrors.
I thought that Paul Jennings' were the mirror windows; but he had a
manner which appeared almost ostentatiously frank. He told us of the
difficulties he had had in getting on, before the war, and praised
Ralston Murray's generosity. "Ralston would ne