I found Giles was right.  I saw him oftener, and there was less restraint on our intercourse.  He would come over to luncheon whenever he had a leisure day, and take me for a walk, or drop in to dinner and take the last train back.  Gladys and Lady Betty came over perpetually.  I used to help them with their shopping, and often go back with them for a few hours.  Max was also a frequent visitor, and Mr. Tudor.  Aunt Philippa kept open house, and made all my visitors welcome.  I think she was a little sorry that Mr. Tudor came so perseveringly:  but she was true to her principles to let things take their course and not to fan the flame by opposition.  She was always kind to the young man, and though she generally contrived to keep Jill beside her when he dropped in for afternoon tea or encountered them on the parade, she did it so quietly that no one noticed any significance in the action.

But I think Aunt Philippa’s maternal fears would have been up in arms if she had overheard a conversation between Jill and myself one wintry afternoon.

Aunt Philippa had gone up to town to see Sara, who was a little ailing, and she and Uncle Brian were to return later.  Gladys and Giles were to dine with us, and Max would probably join them.  Aunt Philippa was very fond of these impromptu entertainments, but she had not extended the invitation to Mr. Tudor, who had called the previous day, and I had got it into my head that Jill was a little disappointed.

She sat rather soberly by the fire that afternoon; but when Miss Gillespie left us she took her usual seat on the rug, and her black locks bobbed into my lap as usual, but I thought the firelight played on a very serious face.

‘What makes you so silent this afternoon, Jill?’ I asked, rather curiously; but she did not answer for a moment, only drew down my hand, and looked at the diamonds that were flashing in the ruddy blaze,—­Giles’s pledge that he had placed there; then she laid her cheek against them, and said suddenly—­

’I was only thinking, Ursie dear:  I often think about things.  Do you remember that evening at Hyde Park Gate when the lamp fell on me, and I might have been burnt to death?’

‘Oh yes, Jill,’ with a shudder, for I never cared to recall that scene.

‘Well, I was thinking,’ still dreamily.  Then, with a change of manner that startled me, ’Ursie, if a person saves another person’s life, don’t you think that life ought to belong to them?—­that is, if they wish it?’ with a sudden blush that rather alarmed me.

‘Stop, my dear,’ I returned coolly.  ’This is very vague.  I do not think I quite understand.  A person and another person, and them, too:  it is terribly involved.  Which is which?  As the children say.’

Jill gave a nervous little laugh, but her eyes gave me no doubt of her meaning:  they looked strangely dark and soft.

‘Mr. Tudor saved my life,’ she whispered.  ’Ursie, if he wants it, that life ought to belong to him.’