He found himself accepting that. It laid a burden on his spirits.

Judy pushed back her chair and got up.

“Nice of you to care and all that.” Her tone, casual again, indicated that the subject was now closed.

As they cleared away and washed up together, the sense of pull and strain was gone. Presently she was asking him about the people at Holt St. Agnes-about his cousins, and he was offering to write and tell them she was going to Pilgrim’s Rest. And then,

“You’ll like Lesley Freyne. She’s right in the village, only a stone’s throw from the Pilgrims. Both the houses are right on the village street. She’s a good sort.”

“Who is she-one of your cousins?”

“No-the local heiress. Rather shy and not very young. Pots of money and a big house. She’s got about twenty evacuees there. She was going to marry a cousin of the Pilgrims, but it never came off-”

He had nearly stumbled into telling her about Henry Clayton, but he caught himself in time. She would only think he was piling it on, and it was, of course, quite irrelevant. He changed the subject abruptly.

“If by any chance a Miss Silver turns up, either in the house or in the village, I’d like you to know that she’s a very particular friend of mine.”

Judy gave him a bright smile.

“How nice. Do tell me all about her. Who is she?”

Frank was to all appearance himself again. His eye had a quizzical gleam, and his voice its negligent drawl as he replied,

“She is the one and only. I sit at her feet and adore. You will too, I expect.”

Judy felt this to be extremely unlikely, but she went on smiling in an interested manner whilst Frank continued his panegyric.

“Her name is Maud-same as in Tennyson’s poetry, which she fervently admires. If you so far forget yourself as to put an ‘e’ on to it, she will forgive you in time because she has a kind heart and very high principles, but it will take some doing.”