perhaps, but they loved Jill, making of themselves brother and
sister; hurt to the quick when after the _debacle_ she had sweetly
declined all offers of help, and worried to death when she had started
out on the hare-brained scheme of earning her own living off her own
bat.

Mary Bingham was one of those delightful women peculiar to England,
restful to look at, restful to know. Her thick, glossy brown hair was
coiled neatly in plaits, no matter what the fashion; her skin, devoid
of powder, did not shine, even on the hottest day; her smile was a
benison, and her teeth and horsemanship perfect.

Her clothes? Well, she was tailor-made, which means that near a horse
she beat other women to a frazzle, but on a parquet floor, covered with
dainty, wispy, fox-trotting damsels, she showed up like a double
magenta-coloured dahlia in a bed of anemones.

Jack Wetherbourne was of the same comfortable and honest type, and they
loved each other in a tailor-made way; one of those tailor-mades of the
best tweed, which, cut without distinctive style, is warranted with an
occasional visit to the cleaners to last out its wearer; a garment you
can always reply on, and be sure of finding ready for use, no matter
how long you have kept it hidden in your old oak chest, or your
three-ply wardrobe, or whatever kind of cupboard you may have managed
to make out of your life. Although no word of love had ever passed
between them, you would have sworn they had been married for years, as
they sat on each side of the fire; Mary in a black demi-toilette, cut
low at the neck, which does not mean decollete by any means, but which
_does_ invariably spell dowdiness, and Jack Wetherbourne with his chin
in his hand, and a distinct frown on his usually undisturbed
countenance.

A great fire crackled in the old-fashioned grate, the flames jumping
from one bit of wood to another, throwing shadows through the
comfortable room, and drawing dull lustre from the highly polished
floor and Jacobean furniture. It was an extraordinarily restful room
for a woman, for with the exception of a few hunting pictures in heavy
frames on the wall, a few hunting trophies on solid tables, some books
and a big box of chocolates, there were no feminine fripperies, no
photographs, nothing with a ribbon attachment, no bits of silver and
egg-shell china.

Oh! But the room was typical of the Honourable Mary Bingham, into
whose capable hands had slipped the reins controlling