which Lady Wicketts unravelled for her benefit, and which Miss Fosby, with occasional references to the photographs and prints of the ‘Madonna’ or the ‘Girl with Lilies’ tearfully confirmed.  So the motor-cars continually flashed between Abbot’s Manor and Badsworth Hall, and Lady Beaulyon apparently found so much to amuse her that she stayed on longer than she had at first intended.  So did Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay.  They had their reasons for prolonging their visit,—­reasons more cogent than love of fresh air, or admiration of pastoral scenery.  Both of them kept up an active correspondence with Maryllia’s aunt, Mrs. Fred Vancourt, a lady who was their ‘very dear’ friend, owing to her general usefulness in the matter of money.  And Mrs. Fred having a fixed plan in her mind concerning the welfare and good establishment of her niece, they were not unwilling to assist her in the furtherance of her views, knowing that whatever trouble they took would be substantially rewarded ‘under the rose.’

So they remained, on one excuse or the other,—­while other guests came or went, and took long walks and motor-rides in the neighbourhood and amused themselves pretty much in their own way, Maryllia rightly considering that to be the truest form of hospitality.  She herself, however, was living a somewhat restrained life among them,—­and she began to realise more than ever the difference between ‘friends’ and ‘acquaintances,’ and the hopeless ennui engendered by the proximity of the latter, without the sympathy of the former.  She was learning the lesson that cannot be too soon mastered by everyone who seeks for pure happiness in this world—­’The Kingdom of God is within you.’  In herself she was not content,—­yet she knew no way in which to make herself contented.  “I want something”—­she said to herself—­“Yet I do not know what I want.”  Her pleasantest time during the inroad of her society friends, was when, after her daily housekeeping consultations with Mrs. Spruce, she could go and have a chat with Cicely in that young person’s small study, which was set apart for her, next to her bedroom nearly at the top of the house, and which commanded a wide view of the Manor park-lands, and the village of St. Rest, with the silvery river winding through it, and the spire of the church rising from the surrounding foliage like a finger pointing to heaven.  And she also found relief from the strain of constant entertaining by rising early in the mornings and riding on her favourite ‘Cleopatra’ all over her property, calling on her new agent, Frank Stanways, and his wife, and chatting with the various persons in her employ.  She did not however go much into the village, and on this point one morning her agent ventured to observe—­

“Old Mr. Letherbarrow has been saying that he has not seen you lately, Miss Vancourt,—­not since your friends came down.  He seems to miss you very much.”

Maryllia, swaying lightly in her saddle, stooped over her mare’s neck and patted it, to hide sudden tears that sprang, she knew not why, to her eyes.