had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at
Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would
have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would
have enabled him to have a home of his own.  Mrs. Cavendish,
however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected
other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly
had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings.

John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage
and smiled rather ruefully.

"Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely.  "I can tell you,
Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us.  As for
Evie--you remember Evie?"

"No."

"Oh, I suppose she was after your time.  She's the mater's
factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport--old Evie!
Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make
them."

"You were going to say----?"

"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of
being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't
seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship.  The
fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that.  He's got a
great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all
weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as
secretary--you know how she's always running a hundred
societies?"

I nodded.

"Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands.
No doubt the fellow was very useful to her.  But you could have
knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she
suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow
must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply
bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are--she is her own
mistress, and she's married him."

"It must be a difficult situation for you all."

"Difficult! It's damnable!"

Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the
train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no
apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green
fields and country lanes.  John Cavendish was waiting on the
platform, and piloted me out to the car.

"Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked.
"Mainly owing to the mater's activities."

The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from
the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of
it.  It was a still, warm day in early July.  As one looked out
over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under
the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that,
not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed
course.  I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world.  As we
turned in at the lodge gates, John said:

"I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings."

"My dear fellow, that's just what I want."

"Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life.  I
drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the
farms.  My wife works regularly 'on the land'.  She is up at five
every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime.
It's a jolly good life taking it all round--if it weren't for
that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He checked the car suddenly, and
glanced at his watch.  "I wonder if we've time to pick up
Cynthia.  No, she'll have started from the hospital by now."

"Cynthia! That's not your wife?"

"No, Cynthia is a protegee of my mother's, the daughter of an old
schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor.  He came
a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless.  My
mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly
two years now.  She works in the Red Cross Hospital at
Tadminster, seven miles away."

As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old
house.  A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a
flower bed, straightened herself at our approach.

"Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings--Miss
Howard."

Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip.  I
had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face.  She was
a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice,
almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible
square body, with feet to match--these last encased in good thick
boots.  Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the