“Wub, tell me what you have been doing all these years,” she said.

He began the tale of them in the short, reluctant, colloquial phrases which the English use to strip their achievements of any romantic semblance until Millicent Splay sailed across the room and claimed him for a table of bridge.

“He will be safer there,” she said to herself.

“Yes, but she had to take him away,” Stella’s thoughts responded.  She was dangerous then in Millie Splay’s judgment.  The sweet flattery set Stella smiling.  She went up to her room rejoicing that she had chosen that week to visit Rackham Park.  She was playing a losing game, but she did not know it.

Thus the very spirit of summer seemed to inform the gathering.  Saturday brought up no clouds to darken the clear sky.  Harold Jupp and Dennis Brown actually scored four nice wins at Gatwick on horses which, to celebrate the week, miraculously ran to form.  Miranda under these conditions would have inevitably lost, but by another stroke of fortune no horse running had any special blemish, name, colour or trick calculated to inspire her.  Sir Chichester was happy too, for he saw a lady reporter write down his name in her notebook.  So was Mr. Albany Todd.  For he met the Earl of Eltringham, with whom he had a passing acquaintance; and his lordship, being complimented upon his gardens, of which Country Life had published an account, was moved to say in the friendliest manner:  “You must propose yourself for a week-end, Mr. Todd, and see them.”

As for Joan and Harry Luttrell, it mattered little where they were, so that they were together.  They walked in their own magical garden.

It fell to Martin Hillyard to look after Stella Croyle, and the task was not difficult.  She kept her eyes blindfold to what she did not wish to see.  She had a chance, she said to herself, recollecting her talk with Harry last night, and the news of Joan which Jenny Prask had given to her.  She had a chance, if she walked delicately.

“Old associations—­give them opportunity, and they renew their strength,” she thought.  “Harry is afraid of them—­that’s all.”

On the Monday evening Jenny Prask brought a fresh piece of gossip which strengthened her hopes.

“Miss Whitworth had a letter from him this morning,” said Jenny.  “She wouldn’t open it at the breakfast-table, Mr. Harper says.  Quite upset she was, he says.  She took it upstairs to her room just as it was.”

“It might have been from some one else,” answered Stella.

“Oh, no, madam,” replied Jenny.  “It had the Midhurst postmark, and Mr. Harper knows his handwriting besides.  Mr. Harper’s very observant.”

“He seems to be,” said Stella.

“Miss Whitworth answered the letter at once, and took it out to the village and posted it with her own hands,” Jenny continued.

“Are you sure?” cried Mrs. Croyle.

“I saw her go with my own eyes, I did.  She went in her own little runabout, and was back in a jiffy, with a sort of ‘There-I’ve-done-it!’ look about her.  Oh, there’s something going on there, madam—­take my word for it!  She’s a deep one, Miss Whitworth is, and no mistake.  Will you wear the smoke-grey to-night, madam?  I am keeping the pink for the ball on Thursday.”