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it’s a hopelessly dismal place; woods and house,’ he said, as Clive made some comment on the Manor Farm.—‘You found the woods specially dismal, didn’t you, Mrs. Wilmott?’

‘But you could do a great deal with them,’ said Monica.

‘What, for instance?’ asked Ingpen.

‘Well, you could have those ditches dug out and drained. And you could plant blue anemones—and primroses—in the clearings. I think primroses would grow there. I only wish I had a wood to play with.’

‘That little wood behind us is full of primroses in the spring, you know,’ said Clive. ‘And that is yours now, Mummy.’

Hester appeared in the doorway as he spoke and Monica saw at once from her aspect, as she paused there, her eyes turning to her husband, that the evening, to her, had some special significance. If Clive was hoping that Hester would please his mother, Hester was hoping—was not that it?—to please him. Or rather was it not that, sure of pleasing him, she displayed for him her equipped readiness to do all that was requested of her. The new dress, Monica recognized it at once, had been requested, and as a tribute to her own taste for pretty