June Storran had no possibility of knowing that this dark, slender woman to whom she had let her rooms was the famous dancer, Magda Wielitzska, since the rooms had been engaged in the name of Miss Vallincourt, but she responded to Magda’s unfailing charm as a flower to the sun.

“It will be lovely for us, too,” she replied.  “Do you know, we were so frightened about putting in that advertisement you answered!  Dan was terribly against it.”  A troubled little frown knitted her level brows.  “But we’ve had such bad luck on the farm since we were married—­the rain spoilt all our crops last year and we lost several valuable animals—­so I thought it would help a bit if we took paying-guests this summer.  But Dan didn’t really approve.”

“I can quite understand,” said Gillian.  “Naturally he wanted to keep his home to himself—­an Englishman’s home is his castle, you know!  And I expect”—­smilingly—­“you haven’t been married very long.”

Mrs. Storran flushed rosily.  She was evidently a sensitive little person, and the blood came and went quickly under her clear skin at the least provocation.

“Not very long,” she acknowledged.  “But we’ve been very happy—­in spite of our bad luck on the farm!  After all, that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

“It’s the only thing that really matters at all,” said Gillian.  Her eyes had grown suddenly soft with some tender recollection of the past.  “But you mustn’t let us give you a lot of trouble while we’re here.  You don’t look over-strong.”  Her glance rested kindly on her hostess’s young face.  In spite of its dewy blue eyes and clear skin with the tinge of wild-rose pink in the cheeks, it conveyed a certain impression of fragility.  She looked almost as though a vigorous puff of wind might blow her away.

“Oh, I’m quite well.  Of course I found looking after a farmhouse rather heavy work—­just at first.  I hadn’t been used to it, and we can’t afford to keep a servant.  You see, I married Dan against the wishes of my people, so of course we couldn’t accept any help from them, though they have offered it.”

“I don’t see why not,” objected Magda.  “They can’t feel very badly about it if they are willing to help you.”

“Oh, no—­they would, gladly.  But Dan would hate it in the circumstances.  You can understand that, can’t you?”—­appealingly.  “He wants to justify himself—­to prove that he can keep his own wife.  He’d be too proud to let me take anything from them.”

“Storran of Stockleigh appears to be considerably less attractive than his name,” summed up Gillian, as, half an hour later, she and Magda and Coppertop were seated round a rustic wooden table in the garden partaking of a typical Devonshire tea with its concomitants of jam and clotted cream.

“Apparently,” she continued, “he has married ‘above him.’  Little Mrs. Storran obviously comes of good stock, while I expect he himself is just an ordinary sort of farmer and doesn’t half appreciate her.  Anyway, he doesn’t seem to consider her much.”