But always Godfrey Radmore stood before the door of her heart, imperiously, almost contemptuously, “shooing off” any would-be intruder.  And yet to-day she told herself, believing what she said, that she no longer loved him.  She remembered now, as if they had been uttered yesterday, the cruel words he had flung at her during their last hour together when he had taunted her with not giving up everything and going off with him—­and that though she had known that there was, even then, a part of his acute, clever brain telling him insistently that she would be a drag on him in his new life....  She had also been cut to the heart that Godfrey had not written to her father when his one-time closest friend, her twin-brother, George, had been killed.

To-day for the first time, Betty Tosswill told herself that perhaps she had been mistaken in doing right instead of wrong, in coming here to help Janet with her far from easy task with the younger children, instead of getting a good job, as she knew she could have done, after the War.

There is a modern type of young woman, quite a good young woman, too, who, in Betty’s position, would have thought that it was far better that she should go out and earn, say, three or four pounds a week, sending half the money, or a third of the money, home.  But poor Betty was no self-deceiver—­she was well aware that what was wanted at Old Place in the difficult months, aye, and even years, which would follow the end of the Great War, was personal service.

And so she had come home, making no favour of it, settling into her often tiring and tiresome duties, trying now and again to make Rosamund and Dolly do their share.  In a way they did try, but they were both very selfish in their different ways, and only Janet knew all that everyone of them owed to Betty’s hard, continuous work, and sense of order.  Not that the girl was perfect by any means; now and again she would say a very sharp, sarcastic word, but on the whole she was wonderfully indulgent, kindly and understanding—­more like a mother than a sister to the others.

Everyday life is a mosaic of infinitely little things, whatever those who write and talk may say.  Betty had come back and settled down to life at home, mainly because her step-mother could no longer “carry on.”  Janet could not get servants, and if she could have got them, she could not now have paid them.  Then there had been the silly, vulgar but highly dangerous affair between Rosamund and their too attractive married “billet”.  Had Betty been at home that business would almost certainly have been checked in the bud.  As for Dolly, she was worse than no good in the home.  But—­a certain secret hope was cherished both by Janet and by Betty concerning Dolly.  The bachelor vicar of the next parish seemed to find a strange pleasure in her society.  He was away now in Switzerland and he had written to Dolly a minute account of his long, tiresome journey.