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clothes. Hester had never, in Monica’s sense, dressed at all; and this dress was fashionable; almost, to her fastidious eye, absurdly so; yet it strangely became the young woman; Monica had never seen her look so nearly beautiful. Her throat was set in a thick circle of red coral beads; her figure wrapped in fringed red and silver; and so naked was she in her modishness that she made Monica think, with her high dark head and gleaming liquid surfaces, of an Indian princess, standing beside some pool from whose waters she had just arisen. Hereyes were turned on Clive and Clive was smiling at her with the tender reticent radiance of some secret code.

‘Yes; they are happy: yes—they understand each other,’ thought Monica, and for a moment her heart was glad, seeing that unity.

And now Hester’s eyes rested on the stranger who stood behind her husband.

‘Captain Ingpen, Hester; our neighbour; Norah’s uncle you know.’ Monica took her hands in hers murmuring as she kissed her: ‘It’s lovely, the dress; quite lovely, my dear.’

Hester was still standing on the threshold and Captain Ingpen had advanced into the light. ‘We have met before, I think,’ he said smiling. ‘Isn’t it—wasn’t it—Hester Blakeston?’