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in which he almost turned tip-toe away from the house, was succeeded by a wave of unreasoning anger.

By what right did she return like this, unheralded? She had deliberately run away from him, and if she thought she could return just when it pleased her———! No, by God!

He strode forward, turned the handle, and flung the door open with his shoulder.

“Well?” he demanded savagely.

Then he gasped in amazement, and coloured furiously.

Patricia Weybourn stood confronting him as she calmly wiped the last of the dishes which had been piled upon the sink board. She wore one of Grace’s gingham aprons over her stylish afternoon frock. Her hands and wrists were damp and unusually pink.

The air was full of the odour of soapy water and frying chops.

“Do you usually charge in like this?” asked the girl calmly.

James Harley stared at her foolishly, his mouth agape, entirely unbelieving.

“Am I not welcome?” she asked, tossing her head coquettishly as she turned to place the wiped dish with the others which gleamed freshly upon the shelves.

“Pat!” he managed to gasp.

Patricia laughed mirthfully and continued her task.

Harley crossed the room and leaned upon the edge of the table, his gaze wandering here and there, noting the return of the old order, then settling upon the girl’s back as she serubbed the sink-board vigorously. His thoughts struggled for coherency, and he noted subconsciously that Pat’s hair brushed the lowest shelf above the sink as she bent forward. Grace had come short of that shelf by a good four inches.