“She asked for my advice, and I had no hesitation in saying that if she felt up to it, the Work Party should go on. After all, none of us know when some distant connection may pass away! If a charitable activity like the Work Party is to be chopped and changed whenever anything like that happens, we shall none of us ever know where we are. I told Maggie very decidedly indeed that she ought not to let it make any difference, always provided she felt up to seeing us all, and she said at once that it would be the greatest help. And I said to her, ‘It isn’t as if poor Connie was anything but the most distant connection. It was your grandfather’s sister Florence who married Connie’s great-grandfather on the mother’s side as his third wife. And she never had any children of her own, which was just as well, because there were fifteen already, but I believe she made the most admirable stepmother.’ ”

After which there was no more to be said.

In spite of the damp afternoon there was quite an unusual attendance. The Manor had been the centre of interest all the week, and now on the top of everything else there was a perfect buzz of talk about the Reptons having had a really terrible quarrel.

“It came from one of the maids… It came from Florrie Stokes… All the Stokes family are such terrible talkers, and Mr. Stokes is the worst of the lot… They say Scilla Repton was carrying on with Gilbert Earle, and that’s why the wedding was broken off… My dear, how dreadful!… They say Colonel Repton is going to divorce her… He was crazy to marry her in the first place-he was old enough to know better… Oh, my dear, no man is ever too old to make a fool of himself over a woman…”

And first, last, and all the time,

“He said he knew who had written the anonymous letters… Florrie heard him with her own ears… The door was open and he shouted it out quite loud… He said he knew who had written the letters, and perhaps it was Scilla herself…”

Nobody in Tilling Green was going to miss an opportunity of mingling with the characters in so exciting a drama. Not that they really expected Roger to mingle with them. The utmost that anyone expected to see of him would be a brief encounter in the hall on arrival or when going away. Scilla Repton was also not to be counted upon. She would occasionally make a brief appearance in corduroy slacks, crimson or emerald, worn with a vividly contrasting jumper, drawl out a few bored sentences, and then vanish from the scene. When the Work Party was actually in the Manor she did as a rule come in at tea-time. If she absented herself to-day, Florrie’s story would be confirmed. And anyhow Miss Maggie would be there, and Valentine, and it should be perfectly possible to tell from their looks and manner whether anything was going on.

When Maggie Repton was worried she couldn’t keep her fingers still. She had to be fidgeting with this and that and the other. As she received them this afternoon, it was quite obvious to these people who knew her so well that she had something on her mind. Her long sallow face twitched, and when she was not actually shaking hands, her bony fingers were plucking at the cut steel chain about her neck or feeling for the handkerchief which she as constantly mislaid.

She had thought that she could manage to get through the afternoon, but now she didn’t feel as if she could. Roger had said that she ought to do it, and Mettie had said that she ought to do it, so here she was in the drawing-room in the dress which she always wore on these occasions. Not her best, because that would look pretentious, and though it was only purple and that counted as half mourning, she wouldn’t quite like to wear it until after the funeral. Her usual dress was fortunately quite suitable-two years old, and of a very dark grey with a little black fancy stitching on the yoke and cuffs.

She had consulted Roger again, a few minutes ago, just to reassure herself about the party. He had said very emphatically,

“Oh, yes, yes-go on and have the Work Party! What difference does it make? Except that if you don’t have it, you will start everyone talking all over again.” He went as far as the door, put his hand on it, and spoke without turning round. “There’ll be plenty to talk about, but let us get this funeral over first.”

Miss Maggie gave a little gasp.

“What-what do you mean?”

He threw her a brief glance over his shoulder.

“Divorce-Scilla is clearing out. You may as well know it now as later.”

“Clearing out-”

“And not coming back. She has been having an affair with Gilbert Earle-if that’s the worst of it. I’ve come to the end. She must go.” He jerked at the handle of the door and went out, shutting it sharply behind him.

Maggie Repton felt her way to a chair and sat down. It was quite a long time before she went through to the drawing-room. When she did so, people were already beginning to arrive. They glanced uneasily at her and at one another. Maggie Repton was always sallow, but this afternoon her skin had a curious greyish tinge. It might have been partly due to the light, the rain having turned into the kind of mist which drains the colour out of everything, but it wasn’t the light that gave her that wandering look and set her fingers shaking.

Valentine, on the contrary, did not look in the least like a deserted bride. She was not in colours-she wore a cream jumper and a grey tweed skirt, a compromise which was very generally approved. But there was a kind of bloom and glow about her which had been rather noticeably absent during the days preceding what should have been her wedding. After no more than a single glance there was a warm and unanimous feeling that whoever was plunged in gloom and distress, it was not dear Valentine.

Miss Silver had by now met quite a number of the ladies present. She found herself impressed by the efficiency with which Miss Eccles appeared to be presiding in what was, after all, someone else’s house. Certainly no one who did not know would have taken Miss Maggie for the hostess. It is true that she was not wearing a hat, but after the first few minutes this failed to distinguish her, since Mettie Eccles and quite a number of the other ladies had preferred to remove their headgear before sitting down to do needlework. For this purpose they adjourned to the hall, either by ones and twos or in small groups. There was a mirror there, and a chest upon which coats, hats and scarves could be piled.

They came back into the room and disposed themselves on the comfortable old-fashioned chairs and sofas. Thimbles were put on, scissors laid ready, half-made garments produced, knitting-needles and wool extracted from capacious bags. Miss Silver found herself on a sofa next to a large and important looking lady in black and white tweeds. She wore pearl studs in her ears, and she had very fine dark eyes. She was also the only woman in the room who was not provided with some sort of work. At first occupied in exchanging nods and greetings with some of the other women, she turned presently to her immediate companion and remarked,

“How very well you knit. Let me see, you are Renie Wayne’s p.g. aren’t you? Miss Silver isn’t it? I’m Nora Mallett-Lady Mallett. I’m a relation of the Reptons, and I’m here under completely false pretences, because I really came over to see Maggie. This poor girl Connie dying so suddenly and Val’s wedding being put off, I thought I had better just make sure that Maggie hadn’t packed up altogether. If I had had any idea that there would be this Work Party business going on I shouldn’t have come. As it is, I’m just waiting for a chance to get Maggie to myself for five minutes, so I don’t want to get involved with anyone it will be difficult to get away from.”

Oddly enough, this bluntness did not give offence. There was so much warmth in voice and manner, so strong an expression of kindness, as to make her seem merely frank. Miss Silver found herself forming a favourable impression. She said with a smile,