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know. Many a man has discovered that there is no stronger rival than the father of the girl he wants to marry. You see, a very strong love for parents is a looking-backwards to childhood all the time. The other sort of love is looking forwards, usurping for oneself the rank of parenthood. Yes, your brother was lucky!”
    Miss Ravensdale sighed.
    “It sounds only too true. But—what about Judith? Can things ever come right for her?”
    A subtle change came into Charles’s voice. It became guarded, impersonal.
    “Time will show!” And with a quick nod he strolled off into the darkness.
    Miss Ravensdale was left to await Mr. Bellairs’ return alone, but with a great deal about which to think.
    *
    And Judith? She had rushed into the house up to her own room and had flung herself down on her bed.
    He had done it again! Somehow or other he had twisted her words so that he had put her in the wrong! And, at the same time, he had at least given the impression that there was nothing for which he himself could be blamed. Judith’s strong little hands clenched and unclenched as her anger mounted. If only he would meet her openly and fairly, but he was so evasive— it gave her a sense of impotence that she could not get at grips with this man whom she disliked and mistrusted so much. Suddenly she sat up. Had Aunt Harriet known about this relationship? Had she deliberately kept quiet about it—that was rather horrible to think of, because of course it meant that she had not really got the well-being either of Judith herself or Windygates at heart.
    Everybody seemed to be siding with the Saxilby man. Even Linda. She had seemed to enjoy talking to him. Had gone out of her way to be charming. And her dress—
    Judith got up slowly from the bed and went over to the long mirror that she so rarely consulted. It was rather a shock to see the reflection of herself with the picture of Linda still so fresh in her mind.
    She scowled heavily. For the first time she realised that there was something wrong with the dress. But even her new perception could not tell her what it was. She put her hand behind and gathered lumps of material together in it so that, for the moment it was a better fit. That, she supposed, improved things. At least she looked a better shape. But there was still something wrong. Disparagingly she tore off the offending garment and then went over to her dressing-table. From a drawer she took a big silk square that Linda had given her last Christmas. She had never worn it because she felt that its bright scarlet just didn’t fit in with any of her other clothes. But now she folded it cornerwise and draped it round her slim shoulders, knotting it in front so that it was like a fichu. Then she went slowly over to the glass again and examined the result. Her eyes widened. Whether you liked it or not, you had to admit that it was striking in its effect, particularly as she was wearing a white silk slip which suddenly looked rather like a well-tailored dress. .
    Perhaps that was what was wrong, Judith thought. Perhaps she ought to wear bright colours and sharp contrasts. Perhaps, if she dressed differently, people would treat her differently.
    Suddenly, with an expression of repugnance, she tore off the scarf and threw it on to the floor with the blue frock. It lay there, glowing, vital, like newly spilled blood.
    Turning her back on it, Judith began to dress hurriedly in her working clothes. She felt more comfortable in them—and somehow safer.
    After all, why should one trouble to dress up just for the sake of other people? They ought to accept one for what one was, not because one flattered them and asked in return for flattery. If people really cared for one another, that was the way it would be. And if they didn’t care, what did clothes matter?
    She went quietly down the back staircase and out into the silent night. She had heard the Enstones drive off—it was impossible not to hear Desmond’s car if one was anywhere