With a mental jolt Sara recollected the fact of her approaching marriage.  How on earth should she break it to these good friends of hers, who counted so much on her remaining with them, that within three months—­the longest period Elisabeth would consent to wait—­she would be leaving them permanently?  It was manifestly impossible to pour such a douche of cold water into the midst of the joyful warmth of their welcome; and she decided to wait, at least until the next day, before acquainting them with the fact of her engagement.

When morning came, the same arguments held good in favour of a further postponement, and, as the days slipped by, it became increasingly difficult to introduce the subject.

Moreover, amid the change of environment and influence, Sara experienced a certain almost inevitable reaction of feeling.  It was not that she actually regretted her engagement, but none the less she found herself supersensitively conscious of it, and she chafed against the thought of the congratulations and all the kindly, well-meant “fussation” which its announcement would entail.

She told herself irritably that this was only because she had not yet had time to get used to the idea of regarding herself as Tim’s future wife; that, later on, when she had grown more accustomed to it, the prospect of her friends’ felicitations would appear less repugnant.  She had to face the ultimate fact that marriage, for her, did not mean the crowning fulfillment of life; marriage with Tim would never be anything more than a substitute, a next best thing.

With these thoughts in her mind, she finally decided to say nothing about her engagement for the present, but to pick up the threads of life at Sunnyside as though that crowded month in London, with its unexpected culmination, had never been.

Once taken, the decision afforded her a curious sense of respite and relief.  It was very pleasant to drop back into the old habits of managing the Sunnyside menage—­making herself indispensable to Selwyn, humouring his wife, and keeping a watchful eye on Molly.

The latter, Sara found, was by far the most difficult part of her task, and the vague apprehensions she had formed, and to some extent shared with Selwyn before her visit to London, increased.

From an essentially lovable, inconsequent creature, with a temper of an angel and the frankness of a child, Molly had become oddly nervous and irritable, flushing and paling suddenly for no apparent cause, and guardedly uncommunicative as to her comings and goings.  She was oddly resentful of any manifestation of interest in her affairs, and snubbed Sara roundly when the latter ventured an injudicious inquiry as to whether Lester Kent were still in the neighbourhood.

“How on earth should I know?” The golden-brown eyes met Sara’s with a look of nervous defiance.  “I’m not his keeper.”  Then, as though slightly ashamed of her outburst, she added more amiably:  “I haven’t been down to the Club for weeks.  It’s been so hot—­and I suppose I’ve been lazy.  But I’m going to-morrow.  I shall be able to gratify your curiosity concerning Lester Kent when I come home.”