Julia winced at the vision of a plump, forty-year-old siren sending coquettish side glances at an admiring Jim.  Anger stirred dully within her.

“Pretty?” she asked, in as nonchalant a voice as she could command.

“Ivy Chancellor?  No—­she’s really plain,” Barbara said, “a sandy, excitable little chatterbox, that’s what she is!  She’s Lady Violet Dray’s daughter; Lady Violet’s quite lovely.  How much Jim admires Ivy I can’t say; she took him about with her everywhere; he was always at the house.”

This was too much.  Julia felt the friendly earth sway under her, a dry salty taste was in her mouth, a very hurricane of resentment shook her heart.

“Oh, Barbara, do you see how he can?” she asked, in a stricken voice.

“No, I don’t!” Barbara answered, with a concerned glance at Julia’s white face.  “Well, as I know him, I can’t believe it’s the same Jim!”

“I wish you had seen him,” Julia said, after an interval of thought.  Barbara said nothing for a few moments, then she confessed suddenly: 

“I did see him, Julie.”

“You did?  Oh, Bab, and you never told me all this time!”

“Well, Mother and Aunt Sanna begged me not to, Ju, and Francis was most emphatic about it,” Barbara pleaded.

“Aunt Sanna—­and Francis!  But—–­” Julia’s keen eyes read Barbara’s face like an open page.  “Then there was more to it!” she declared.  “For they couldn’t have minded my knowing just this!”

“I wish I had never mentioned Jim,” Barbara said heartily.  “It’s none of my business, anyway, only—­only—­it makes me so unhappy I just can’t bear it!  I simply can’t bear it!” And to Julia’s astonishment, Barbara, who rarely showed emotion, fumbled for her handkerchief and began to cry.  “I love Jim,” pursued Barbara, with that refreshed vehemence that follows a brief interval of tears.  “And you’re just as dear to me as my own sisters—­dearer!  And I can’t bear to have you and that darling baby here alone, and Jim off in trailing around after a little fool like Ivy Chancellor!  I can’t bear it,” said Barbara, drying her eyes, which threatened to overflow again.  “It’s monstrous!  You’re—­you’re wonderful, of course, Julie, but you can’t make me think you’re happy!  And Jim is wretched. I’ve known him since I was a baby, and he can’t fool me!  He can bluff about his work and his club and all that as long as he pleases!  But he can’t fool me; I know he’s utterly miserable.”

“And you saw him?” Julia asked.

They were in a little strip of woods just above Richard’s cabin now, and Julia seated herself on the low-hanging branch of an oak.  Her face, as she turned to Barbara, was full of resolute command.

“Sit down, Bab,” she said, indicating a thick fallen log a few feet away.  “Tell me all about it.”

“Francis would strangle me,” Barbara murmured, seating herself nevertheless.  “And there isn’t very much to it, anyway,” she added, with a bright air of candour.  “I wrote Jim a line, and he came to our house in Ludbroke Road, and we had a little talk.  He’s fatter.  He was awfully interested in some knee-cap operation—–­”