“Mayn’t I tell mummy?” he pleaded.

She took her arm from his neck and looked straight before her.  The moment of jealousy sped through her—­shame rode fierce behind.

“Yes,” she replied, “you can tell mummy.”

The weeks of the summer flew by.  No sympathy was lost between her mother and herself.  Her sisters frankly were jealous of her.  She had better clothes than they, knew more of the world, was more interesting to strangers in her conversation.  The people of Cailsham, treating her first as one of the Bishops—­the one who had lived in London, earning her living—­came to find that she was a different type of person to the rest of her family.  The women admitted her to look smart; the men—­at the weekly teas which some member of the tennis club always provided—­sought out her company.  And then, to compensate for all the unpleasantness in her home, there was Maurie—­Maurie whom every night since that first occasion of their friendship she said good night to.  With arms round each other’s necks, they said their prayers together—­Sally who had offered no supplication on her knees since the night when Traill had left her.

“I scarcely thought it possible to be so happy,” she wrote to Janet.  “I absolutely look forward to the waking in the mornings now, because then I go in and wake him up, kiss his dear, brave little face as it lies on the pillow fast asleep; and then he kneels on the bed, puts his arms round my neck, and we say our prayers together.  That means nothing to you, I expect; but don’t laugh at it.  Oh, Janet, I wish he were mine.”

She was woman enough, too, to find some consolation in the attention which the people of Cailsham paid to her.  She was gratified by the interest which the men in the little town, and principal amongst them, Wilfrid Grierson, showed in her whenever they met.  He was the eldest son of the largest fruit farmer in the town—­a man, therefore, in much request, conspicuous at every party to which it was thought considerate to ask Mrs. Bishop and her daughters.  To Sally’s mind, nauseated still whenever she thought of it by the light in which Devenish had seen her, the possibility of a man falling in love with her was remote from her consideration.  She was brought abruptly to its realization by a remark which Dora, her younger sister, dropped for her benefit.

“If Mr. Grierson wasn’t so eminently sensible,” she said one evening after a tea which Mrs. Bishop had given at the tennis club, “one would feel inclined to think that he’d lost his head over you, Sally.”

A flame of colour spread across Sally’s cheeks.  “Let’s be thankful that he’s eminently sensible, then,” she replied.

“What—­do you mean to say you wouldn’t marry him?”

“He hasn’t asked me—­surely that’s sufficient.  He never will.  My position in life is not the position that he’s ever likely to choose a wife from.”

“Your position, Sally,” said Mrs. Bishop, looking up from the writing of a letter at the other end of the room, “so long as you are with us, is the same as ours.”