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Hester.’ Celia’s downcast eyes seemed studying a difficult move in chess. ‘He must see it; Clive must have seen it from the first, and from the first it must have made him miserable. Only he loves her so much that he feels sure you would, too, if you could really get to know her.—Perhaps you will, Monica,’ and Celia raised her eyes showing her friend the only possible move out of her predicament. ‘Perhaps you will, after all. His love can’t be so mistaken. There must be so much to love in Hester—if she makes Clive happy.—Can’t you trust that, Monica, and try?’

Monica’s eyes dwelt on the girl’s delicate face. ‘What does it mean to you, their coming here?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been wondering about that.—I’m afraid they weren’t thinking of me —or of you either, when they came.’

Celia leaned back in her chair and looked across at her. ‘I’m not a wounded doe, Monica,’ she said, and she smiled.

‘Not a wounded doe?’

‘No.’ Celia returned her gaze with a defiance almost gay; ‘though I am sure you feel me that, you and Norah! I was awfully miserable when it all happened, of course; so miserable that I got ill; that couldn’t be pretended about and I didn’t try to pre-