“Very young ladies, and very old ones,” Mannering remarked, grimly, “generally like Borrowdean.”

“And what about Mrs. Handsell?” she asked, with a spice of malice in her tone.

“Mrs. Handsell,” Mannering answered, coolly, “was a very charming woman.  Since both these people have passed out of our lives, Clara, I scarcely see why we need discuss them.”

“One must talk about something,” she answered.  “At least I must talk, and you must pretend to listen.  I positively cannot exist in the house by myself any longer.”

“Where is Richard?” Mannering asked.

“Gone into Norwich to dine at the barracks with some stupid men.  Not that I mind his going,” she added, hastily.  “I wish he’d stay away for a month.  Of course he’s a very good sort, and all that, but he’s deadly monotonous.  Uncle, really, as a matter of curiosity, before I get to be an old woman I should like to see one other young man.”

“Plenty on the links just now!”

“I know it.  I sat out near the ninth hole all this morning.  There are some Cambridge boys who looked quite nice.  One of them was really delightful when I showed him where his ball was, but I can’t consider that an introduction, can I?  Heavens, who’s this?”

Behind the trim maid-servant already crossing the lawn, and within a few yards of them, came a strange, almost tragical, figure.  Her plain black clothes and hat were powdered with dust, there were deep lines under her eyes, she swayed a little when she walked, as though with fatigue.  She seemed to bring with her into the cool, quiet garden, with its country odours and general air of peace, an alien note.  One almost heard the deep undercry from a far-away world of suffering—­the great, ever-moving wheels seemed to have caught her up and thrown her down in this most incongruous of places.  Clara, in her cool white dress, her fresh complexion, her general air of health and girlish vigour, seemed, as she rose to her feet, a creature of another sex, almost of another world.  The two girls exchanged for a moment wondering glances.  Then Mannering intervened.

“Hester!” he exclaimed.  “Why—­is there anything wrong?”

“Nothing—­very serious,” she answered.  “But I had to see you.  I thought that I had better come.”

He held out his hands.

“You have had a tiring journey,” he said.  “You must come into the house and let them find you something to eat.  Clara, this is Hester Phillimore, the daughter of an old friend of mine.  Will you see about a room for her, and lend her anything she requires?”

“Of course,” Clara answered.  “Won’t you come into the house with me?” she added pleasantly to the girl.  “You must be horribly tired travelling this hot weather, and this is such an out-of-the-way corner of the world!”

Hester lingered for a moment, glancing nervously at Mannering.

“I must go back to-night,” she said.  “I only came because I thought that it would be quicker than writing.”