She went in through a small white gate and up a flagged path, pushed open Miss Cray’s front door, and called,

“Rietta!”

In the sitting-room Rietta Cray gave a quick frown which brought out the likeness to her nephew and called back,

“I’m here. Come in!”

If there was one person she didn’t want to see at this moment it was Catherine Welby. She did not as a matter of fact wish to see anyone at all, but if you live in a village, it’s no good not wanting to see people, because you have to. She was perfectly well aware that James Lessiter’s return had set everyone remembering that they had once been engaged, and wondering how they would feel and look, and what they would say when they met. Twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to let a village forget.

She did not get up when Catherine came in, but continued to bend forward over the table at which she was cutting a child’s frock out of an odd length of material. She had known Catherine for too many years to disturb herself, and if she were to take the hint and think her too busy to be disturbed, there would be no harm done. Her scissors snipped through the end of the stuff before she looked up to see Catherine lighting a cigarette.

“You look very busy, Rietta. Garments for the poor?”

The quick frown appeared again. In some curious way it gave a young, impulsive look to the dark, straight features. No one had ever called Rietta pretty-her cast of looks was too severe for that. “Pallas Athene, with a touch of the Gorgon’s head,” as a friend of James Lessiter’s had once said after being snubbed. But she had her moments of beauty- fleeting, stormy moments for the most part. As to the rest, her hair was dark, her eyes grey and finely lashed, her figure in the Greek tradition, and her manner a little on the abrupt side. She looked up now and said,