Fortunately for the new occupant of The Trellis House, a certain type of prettiness gives its lucky possessor an extraordinary sense of assurance and tranquillity when dealing with the average man.  Enid Crofton wasn’t quite sure, however, if Godfrey Radmore was an average man.  He had never made love to her in those pleasant, now far-away days in Egypt, when every other unattached man did so.  That surely proved him to be somewhat peculiar.

During the whole of her not very long life she had been petted and spoilt, admired and sheltered, by almost everyone with whom fate had brought her in contact.

Enid Crofton’s father had been a paymaster in the Royal Navy named Joseph Catlin.  After his death she and her mother had lived on in Southsea till the girl was sixteen, when her mother had pronounced her quite old enough to be “out.”  Mrs. Catlin was still too attractive herself to feel her daughter a rival, and the two years which had followed had been delightful years to them both.  Then something which they regarded as most romantic occurred.  On the day Enid was eighteen, and her mother thirty-seven, there had been a double wedding, Mrs. Catlin becoming the wife of a prosperous medical man, while Enid married a young soldier who had just come in for L4,000, which he and his girl-wife at once proceeded to spend.

To-day, in spite of herself, her mind went back insistently to her first marriage—­that marriage of which she never spoke, but of which she was afraid she would have to tell Godfrey Radmore some day.  She was shrewd enough to know that many a man in love with a widow would be surprised and taken aback were he suddenly told that she had been married before, not once, but twice.

Unknowingly to them both, the young, generous, devoted, lover-husband, to whom even now she sometimes threw a retrospective, kindly thought, had done her an irreparable injury.  He had opened to her the gates of a material paradise—­the kind of paradise in which a young woman enjoys a constant flow of ready money.  Though she was quite unaware of it, it was those fifteen weeks spent on the Riviera, for the most part at Monte Carlo, which had gradually caused Enid to argue herself into the belief that she was justified in doing anything—­anything which might contribute to the renewal of that delicious kind of existence—­the only life, from her point of view, worth living.

Her first husband’s death in a motor accident had left her practically penniless, as well as frightened and bewildered, and so she had committed the mistake of marrying, almost at once, clever, saturnine Colonel Crofton, a man over thirty years older than herself.  His mad passion had died down like a straw-fed flame, and when there had come, like a bolt from their already grey sky, the outbreak of War, it had been a godsend to them both.