“I’m more sorry for Dad than for anybody. His hair is distinctly greyer since this began.”

“There’s nothing dishonourable about it, Dinny.”

Dinny’s head tilted up.

“No, indeed!”

“You remind me of a two-year-old, Dinny—one of those whipcordy chestnuts that kick up their heels in the paddock, get left at the post, and come in first after all. Here’s your American bearing down on us. Shall we wait for him? He gave very useful evidence.”

Dinny shrugged her shoulders, and almost instantly Hallorsen’s voice said:

“Miss Cherrell!”

Dinny turned.

“Thank you very much, Professor, for what you said.”

“I wish I could have lied for you, but I had no occasion. How is that sick gentleman?”

“All right so far.”

“I am glad to hear that. I have been worried thinking of you.”

“What you said, Professor,” put in Sir Lawrence, “about not being seen dead with any of those muleteers hit the magistrate plumb centre.”

“To be seen alive with them was bad enough. I’ve an automobile here, can I take you and Miss Cherrell anywhere?”

“You might take us to the borders of civilisation, if you’re going West.”

“Well, Professor,” continued Sir Lawrence, when they were seated, “what do you think of London? Is it the most barbarous or the most civilised town on earth?”

“I just love it,” said Hallorsen, without ever taking his eyes off Dinny.

“I don’t,” murmured Dinny; “I hate the contrasts and the smell of petrol.”

“Well, a stranger can’t tell why he loves London, unless it’s the variety and the way you’ve gotten freedom and order all mixed up; or maybe it’s because it’s so different from our towns over there. New York is more wonderful and more exciting, but not so homey.”

“New York,” said Sir Lawrence, “is like strychnine. It perks you up until it lays you out.”

“I certainly couldn’t live in New York. The West for me.”

“The great open spaces,” murmured Dinny.

“Why yes, Miss Cherrell; you would love them.”

Dinny smiled wanly. “No one can be pulled up by the roots, Professor.”

“Ah!” said Sir Lawrence, “my son once took up the question of Emigration in Parliament. He found that people’s roots were so strong that he had to drop it like a hot potato.”

“Is that so?” said Hallorsen. “When I look at your town folk, undersized and pale and kind of disillusioned, I can’t help wondering what roots they can have.”

“The townier the type, the more stubborn its roots—no open spaces for them; the streets, fried fish, and the pictures. Would you put me down here, Professor? Dinny, where are you bound for?”

“Oakley Street.”

Hallorsen stopped the car and Sir Lawrence got out.

“Miss Cherrell, may I have the great pleasure of taking you as far as Oakley Street?”

Dinny bowed.

Seated thus side by side with him in the closed car, she wondered uneasily what use he would make of his opportunity. Presently, without looking at her, he said:

“As soon as your brother is fixed up I shall be sailing. I’m going to take an expedition to New Mexico. I shall always count it a privilege to have known you, Miss Cherrell.”

His ungloved hands were gripping each other between his knees; and the sight moved her.

“I am very sorry for misjudging you at first, Professor, just as my brother did.”

“It was natural. I shall be glad to think I have your good will when all’s been said and done.”

Dinny put out her hand impulsively.

“You have.”

He took the hand with gravity, raised it to his lips, and returned it to her gently. Dinny felt extremely unhappy. She said, timidly: “You’ve made me think quite differently about Americans, Professor.”

Hallorsen smiled.

“That is something, anyway.”

“I’m afraid I was very crude in my ideas. You see, I haven’t really known any.”

“That is the little trouble between us; we don’t really know each other. We get on each other’s nerves, with little things, and there it ends. But I shall always remember you as the smile on the face of this country.”

“That,” said Dinny, “is very pretty, and I wish it were true.”

“If I could have a picture of you, I should treasure it.”

“Of course you shall! I don’t know if I have a decent one, but I’ll send you the best.”

“I thank you. I think if you will allow me I will get out here; I am just not too sure of myself. The car will take you on.” He tapped on the glass and spoke to the chauffeur.

“Good-bye!” he said, and took her hand again, looked at it rather long, pressed it hard, and slid his long frame through the doorway.

“Good-bye!” murmured Dinny, sitting back, with rather a choky feeling in her throat.

Five minutes later the car pulled up before Diana’s house, and, very subdued, she went in.

Diana, whom she had not seen that morning, opened the door of her room as she was passing.

“Come in here, Dinny.” Her voice was stealthy, and a little shudder went through Dinny. They sat down side by side on the four-poster bed, and Diana spoke low and hurriedly:

“He came in here last night and insisted on staying. I didn’t dare refuse. There’s a change; I have a feeling that it’s the beginning of the end, again. His self-control is weakening, all round. I think I ought to send the children somewhere. Would Hilary take them?”

“I’m sure he would; or Mother would certainly.”

“Perhaps that would be better.”

“Don’t you think you ought to go, yourself?”

Diana sighed and shook her head.

“That would only precipitate things. Could you take the children down for me?”

“Of course. But do you really think he—?”

“Yes. I’m sure he’s working up again. I know the signs so well. Haven’t you noticed, Dinny, he’s been drinking more each evening? It’s all of a piece.”

“If he’d get over his horror of going out.”

“I don’t believe that would help. Here at all events we know what there is to know, and the worst at once if it comes. I dread something happening with strangers, and our hands being forced.”

Dinny squeezed her arm.

“When would you like the children taken down?”

“As soon as possible. I can’t say anything to him. You must just go off as quietly as you can. Mademoiselle can go down separately, if your mother will have her too.”

“I shall come back at once, of course.”

“Dinny, it isn’t fair on you. I’ve got the maids. It’s really too bad to bother you with my troubles.”

“But of course I shall come back. I’ll borrow Fleur’s car. Will he mind the children going?”

“Only if he connects it with our feeling about his state. I can say it’s an old invitation.”

“Diana,” said Dinny, suddenly, “have you any love for him left?”

“Love? No!”

“Just pity?”

Diana shook her head.

“I can’t explain; it’s the past and a feeling that if I desert him I help the fates against him. That’s a horrible thought!”

“I understand. I’m so sorry for you both, and for Uncle Adrian.”

Diana smoothed her face with her hands, as if wiping off the marks of trouble.

“I don’t know what’s coming, but it’s no good going to meet it. As to you, my dear, don’t for God’s sake let me spoil your time.”

“That’s all right. I’m wanting something to take me out of myself. Spinsters, you know, should be well shaken before being taken.”

“Ah! When ARE you going to be taken, Dinny?”

“I have just rejected the great open spaces, and I feel a beast.”

“Between the great open spaces and the deep sea—are you?”

“And likely to remain so. The love of a good man—and all that, seems to leave me frost-bitten.”

“Wait! Your hair is the wrong colour for the cloister.”

“I’ll have it dyed and sail in my true colours. Icebergs are sea-green.”

“As I said before—wait!”

“I will,” said Dinny…

Fleur herself drove the South Square car to the door two days later. The children and some luggage were placed in it without incident, and they started.