“He doesn’t practise in the Divorce Court. Besides, she’s his secretary.”

“I must get to hear what Kingsons say. Lawrence believes in them. Fleur’s father was a member there.”

“Then—” Dinny had begun, when the door was opened.

“Mr. Croom, sir.”

“You needn’t go, Dinny.”

Young Croom came in. After a glance at Dinny, he moved towards the General.

“Clare told me to come over, sir.”

The General nodded. His narrowed eyes were fixed steadily on his daughter’s would-be lover. The young man faced that scrutiny as if on parade, his eyes replying to the General’s without defiance.

“I won’t beat about the bush,” said the General suddenly. “You seem to have got my daughter into a mess.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Kindly give me your account of it.”

Young Croom put his hat down on the table, and, squaring his shoulders, said:

“Whatever she has told you is true, sir.”

Dinny saw with relief her father’s lips twitching as if with a smile.

“Very correct, Mr. Croom; but not what I want. She has told me her version; I should be glad to hear yours.”

She saw the young man moisten his lips, making a curious jerking motion of his head.

“I’m in love with her, sir: have been ever since I first saw her on the boat. We’ve been going about rather in London—cinemas, theatres, picture galleries, and that; and I’ve been to her rooms three—no, five times altogether. On February the third I drove her down to Bablock Hythe for her to see where I’m going to have my job; and coming back—I expect she told you—my lights failed, and we were hung up in a pitch-dark wood some miles short of Henley. Well—we—we thought we’d better just stay there until it was light again, instead of risking things. I’d got off the road twice. It really was pitch-dark, and I had no torch. And so—well, we waited in the car till about half-past six, and then came up, and got to her place about eight.” He paused and moistened his lips, then straightened himself again and said with a rush: “Whether you believe me or not, sir, I swear there was nothing whatever between us in the car; and—and there never has been, except—except that she’s let me kiss her cheek two or three times.”

The General, who had never dropped his eyes, said: “That’s substantially what she told us. Anything else?”

“After I had that paper, sir, I motored up to see her at once—that was yesterday. Of course I’ll do anything she wants.”

“You didn’t put your heads together as to what you would say to us?”

Dinny saw the young man stiffen.

“Of course not, sir!”

“Then I may take it that you’re ready to swear there’s been nothing, and defend the action?”

“Certainly, if you think there’s any chance of our being believed.”

The General shrugged. “What’s your financial position?”

“Four hundred a year from my job.” A faint smile curled his lips: “Otherwise none, sir.”

“Do you know my daughter’s husband?”

“No.”

“Never met him?”

“No, sir.”

“When did you first meet Clare?”

“On the second day of the voyage home.”

“What were you doing out there?”

“Tea-planting; but they amalgamated my plantation with some others, for economy.”

“I see. Where were you at school?”

“Wellington, and then at Cambridge.”

“You’ve got a job with Jack Muskham?”

“Yes, sir, his Arab mares. They’re due in the spring.”

“You know about horses, then?”

“Yes. I’m terribly fond of them.”

Dinny saw the narrowed gaze withdraw from the young man’s face, and come to rest on hers.

“You know my daughter Dinny, I think?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll leave you to her now. I want to think this over.”

The young man bowed slightly, turned to Dinny, and then, turning back, said with a certain dignity:

“I’m awfully sorry, sir, about this; but I can’t say I’m sorry that I’m in love with Clare. It wouldn’t be true. I love her terribly.”

He was moving towards the door, when the General said:

“One moment. What do you mean by love?”

Involuntarily Dinny clasped her hands: An appalling question! Young Croom turned round. His face was motionless.

“I know what you mean, sir,” he said huskily: “Desire and that, or more? Well! More, or I couldn’t have stood that night in the car.” He turned again to the door.

Dinny moved and held it open for him. She followed him into the hall, where he was frowning and taking deep breaths. She slipped her hand through his arm and moved him across to the wood fire. They stood, looking down into the flames, till she said:

“I’m afraid that was rather dreadful. But soldiers like to have things straight out, you know. Anyway—I know my father—you made what’s called a good impression.”

“I felt a ghastly kind of wooden idiot. Where is Clare? Here?”

“Yes.”

“Can I see her, Miss Cherrell?”

“Try calling me Dinny. You can see her; but I think you’d better see my mother too. Let’s go to the drawing-room.”

He gave her hand a squeeze.

“I’ve always felt you were a brick.”

Dinny grimaced. “Even bricks yield to a certain pressure.”

“Oh! sorry! I’m always forgetting my ghastly grip. Clare dreads it. How is she?”

With a faint shrug and smile, Dinny said:

“Doing as well as can be expected.”

Tony Croom clutched his head.

“Yes, I feel exactly like that, only worse; in those cases there’s something to look forward to and—here? D’you think she’ll ever really love me?”

“I hope so.”

“Your people don’t think that I pursued her—I mean, you know what I mean, just to have a good time?”

“They won’t after today. You are what I was once called—transparent.”

“You? I never quite know what you’re thinking.”

“That was a long time ago. Come!”

When young Croom had withdrawn into the sleet and wind of that discomforting day, he left behind him a marked gloom. Clare went to her room saying her head was bad and she was going to lie down. The other three sat among the tea-things, speaking only to the dogs, sure sign of mental disturbance.

At last Dinny got up: “Well, my dears, gloom doesn’t help. Let’s look on the bright side. They might have been scarlet instead of white as snow.”

The General said, more to himself than in reply:

“They must defend. That fellow can’t have it all his own way.”

“But, Dad, to have Clare free, with a perfectly clear conscience, would be nice and ironic, and ever so much less fuss!”

“Lie down under an accusation of that sort?”

“Her name will go even if she wins. No one can spend a night in a car with a young man with impunity. Can they, Mother?”

Lady Charwell smiled faintly.

“I agree with your father, Dinny. It seems to me revolting that Clare should be divorced when she’s done nothing except been a little foolish. Besides, it would be cheating the law, wouldn’t it?”

“I shouldn’t think the law would care, dear. However—!” And Dinny was silent, scrutinising their rueful faces, aware that they set some mysterious store by marriage and divorce which she did not, and that nothing she could say would alter it.

“The young man,” said the General, “seemed a decent fellow, I thought. He’ll have to come up and see the lawyers when we do.”

“I’d better go up with Clare tomorrow evening, Dad, and get Uncle Lawrence to arrange you a meeting with the lawyers for after lunch on Monday. I’ll telephone you and Tony Croom from Mount Street in the morning.”

The General nodded and got up. “Beast of a day!” he said, and put his hand on his wife’s shoulder: “Don’t let this worry you, Liz. They can but tell the truth. I’ll go to the study and have another shot at that new pigsty. You might look in later, Dinny…”

At all critical times Dinny felt more at home in Mount Street than she did at Condaford. Sir Lawrence’s mind was so much more lively than her father’s; Aunt Em’s inconsequence at once more bracing and more soothing than her mother’s quiet and sensible sympathy. When a crisis was over, or if it had not begun, Condaford was perfect, but it was too quiet for nerve storms or crucial action. As country houses went, it was, indeed, old-fashioned, inhabited by the only county family who had been in the district for more than three or four generations. The Grange had an almost institutional repute. “Condaford Grange” and “the Cherrells of Condaford” were spoken of as curiosities. The week-ending or purely sporting existence of the big ‘places’ was felt to be alien to them. The many families in the smaller ‘places’ round seemed to make country life into a sort of cult, organising tennis and bridge parties, village entertainments, and the looking of each other up; getting their day’s shooting here and there, supporting the nearest golf course, attending meets, hunting a bit, and so forth. The Charwells, with their much deeper roots, yet seemed to be less in evidence than almost anyone. They would have been curiously missed, but, except to the villagers, they hardly seemed real.