“Hope you’ll see your way to accepting.  My only fear is that it would throw too much work on you; you’re such a conscientious beggar! but of course you wouldn’t do for us all the odd jobs you do for poor Bernard.  Seems to me,” Jack ruminated, “the best plan would be for you to have a car.  One gets about quicker like that and it wouldn’t be such a fag.  There’s that little green Napier roadster, she’d come in handy if we stabled her at Nicholson’s.”  He added simply, to obviate any possible misunderstanding, “Garage bills our show, of course.”

“Thanks most awfully,” said Val, accepting without false pride.  “I should love it, I do get tired after being in the saddle all day.  It would more than make up for the extra work.”

They were crossing the Wanhope lawn as he spoke, on their way to the open French windows of the parlour, gold-lit with many candles against an amethyst evening sky.  Laura, in a plain black dress, was at the piano, the cool drenched foliage of Claude Debussy’s rainwet gardens rustling under her magic fingers.  Bernard was talking to Mrs. Jack Bendish, for the sufficient reason that she disliked him and disliked talking to any one while Laura played.  Her defiant sparkle, her gipsy features, her slim white shoulders emerging from the brocade and sapphires of a sleeveless bodice cut open almost to her waist, produced the effect of a Carolus Duran lady come to life and threw Laura back into a dimmed and tired middle age.  Jack’s eyes glowed as they dwelt on her.  His marriage had been a trial to his family, but no one could deny that Yvonne had made a success of it, for Jack worshipped her.—­Lawrence, leaning forward in his chair, his forehead on his hand to shield his eyes from the light, looked exceedingly tired, and probably was so.

“Queer chap Hyde,” said Bendish to Val as they waited on the grass for the music to finish.  “Can’t think what he’s stopping on for.”

“Oh, Jack, for heaven’s sake don’t you begin on that subject!”

“Hey?  Oh!  No, by Jove.  Seems a shame, doesn’t it?” returned Bendish, taking the point with that rapid effortless readiness of his class which made him more soothing to Val than many a cleverer man.  “It all says itself, so what’s the good of saying it?  All the same I shan’t be sorry when Hyde packs his movin’ tent a day’s march nearer Jerusalem.”  And with a casual wink at Val he stepped over the threshold.  His judgment, so vague and shrewd and sure of itself, represented probably the kindest view that would be taken in Chilmark.

Their entrance broke up the gathering.  Jack carried off his wife, and Barry appeared to wheel Bernard away to bed.  With a word to Laura, Val followed the cripple to his room.  The Duke was pressing for an answer, and long experience had taught Val that for Bernard one time was as good as another:  it was not possible to count on his moods.  And there was not much to be said; all pros and cons had