Variable Winds at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

a desire for almost melancholy retreat from the closest human relations. And the events of his life had strengthened this — his life in these last years with his mother and sister — his sister’s mental illness. Yet the remembrance of Adeline in his arms, of her trust in him and her joyous confidence in the future, was a sunshine to burn away these mists of doubt. Standing on the rustic bridge with her, the darkling stream scarcely audible below, he felt a passionate upsurge of desire and a determination to be steadfast in his love.

      On the following morning Renny mounted him on a peppery grey gelding and took him on a tour of the estate. showed him the fields with the wheat tall, golden, and stately, soon to be reaped; the orchards where Piers was spraying the apple trees; the cherry orchard where pickers were filling their baskets with the glossy red fruit; the old apple orchard, planted by his grandfather, where the fruit would rot unpicked, where the old trees leant to the knee-high grass.

      “These apples,” said Renny, “are no longer marketable. Their varieties are forgotten, but I say they are better flavoured than the showy sort they sell in the shops today. I’m sure you’ll think so.” He took it for granted that Fitzturgis would remain at Jalna.

      On his part the Irishman was not sorry to dismount at the stable door. The gelding, in his irritable shyings, had shown an invincible desire to throw him, and Fitzturgis disliked the thought of such an ignominious exhibition. He made no pretence of being an accomplished horseman. He preferred going about in a motor car. He had a disagreeable suspicion that Renny Whiteoak had mounted him on this particular horse to test his powers. Well, thank God, he’d stuck on him.

      “Good,” said Renny, with his genial grin, which Fitzturgis found somehow disparaging.

      Inside the stable they found the elderly ruddy-faced head groom, Wright, directing a new hand in his work.

      “Wright,” said Renny, “has been with me for over thirty years. In all that time he has scarcely taken a holiday — unless you call going to the Horse Show in New York a holiday. Eh, Wright?”

      “I call it hard work, sir,” said Wright, “but it’s holiday enough for me.” He stood squarely, sizing up Fitzturgis out of his round blue eyes.

      Renny went on, “He’s been to Ireland, too. It was he who took Maurice over when he was a little fellow.”

      “And a nice little boy he was,” said Wright. “I’d no trouble with him. I guess it was a lucky trip for him, though it seemed hard at the time.”

      “He’s coming here later,” said Fitzturgis without warmth. “Home he still calls it.”

      “I should think he would,” exclaimed Renny. “This is always home to all of us.”

      Wright asked, “Would you like to see the foal, sir?” He led the way to the loose-box where it stood, proud in its infant strength, beside its mother. “It has her head,” said Wright, “and its sire’s body. I believe it’ll be a good one.”

      “Is the sire well-known?” Fitzturgis asked, for something to say.

      “I’ll say he is,” said Wright. “He won the King’s Plate once and might have done wonders, but he has one fault. As long as there were fences in front of him he was OK, but the moment the run-in was reached he lost interest and wanted nothing but to get off the course. His rider could never tell when he might run out to the left.”

      The three men stared at the foal, which stared as though in challenge.

      Renny said to the foal, caressing it, “See to it that you inherit only your dad’s virtues.”

      “That’s easier said than done,” said Wright. “I think we’re all inclined to inherit faults.”

      “You say that, Wright,” laughed Renny. “Yet you call Miss Adeline perfect.”

      “She’s the exception, sir.” Wright turned to Fitzturgis and added in his old-fashioned way, “I hope I may make free to congratulate you, sir. I’ve known the young lady all her life. I carried her about these stables in my arms before she could walk, and she never knew the meaning of fear.”

      “I agree,” said Fitzturgis, “that she’s perfect.”

      In the passage they were joined by Patience, wearing a blue overall, a bottle of liniment in her hand. “I’ve been rubbing Frigate’s leg,” she explained. “It’s much better this morning.” She joined them in an inspection of the stables, showing a pride even in excess of Wright’s. Their order, their modern comforts, were indeed something to be proud of, and Fitzturgis said so.

      “Where is Adeline?” asked Patience.

      “I wanted Mait’s strict attention,” said Renny, “so I left her at home.”

      “Uncle Finch is coming,” Patience announced. “Mother had a letter from him this morning. Isn’t that good news?” She turned to Fitzturgis. “You will be getting confused with us all, I’m afraid.”

      “Not at all,” he answered. “For one thing, I’ve met Finch. For another, Adeline has kept me en rapport with the doings of the family for the past two years.”

      “When is Finch coming?” asked Renny.

      “In three days. It’s sooner than we expected. The funny thing is that he doesn’t want us to prepare for him He just wants to be left alone.”

      “What’s the matter with him?”

      “Nothing, he says. He’s just tired and wants to be left alone.”

      “He couldn’t come to a better place,” Renny said cheerfully. “You must know” — his eyes were now on Fitzturgis — “we don’t bother much about the outer world, aside from the activities of our professions — if one can call the breeding of show horses a profession.”

      “I do,” said Patience, “and a mighty exacting one.” She added, not without pride, “I breed dogs too. Fashionable ones. Want to come and see my kennels?”

      “A little later,” said Renny. “I’d like to show Maitland my office first.” He found it difficult to call Fitzturgis by his Christian name, for the Whiteoaks were not accustomed to bandy first names till acquaintance had ripened. Yet how could he “mister” the man Adeline was to marry?

      In truth he found it hard to feel at complete ease with his guest. The man was still a mystery to him, in spite of his air of frankness. He realized, a little wryly, that he might have felt nearer to him if he had not been engaged to Adeline. As he looked at Fitzturgis he could not help thinking, “Here is the man who will supplant me.”

      Now, leading the way into his office, he said, “You would not think that girl had lately had a disappointment in love, would you?”

      “Indeed, no. She strikes me as being very serene.”

      “Oh, she’ll get over it,” said Renny. “The fact is, she’s well rid of him. He seems a poor creature. Unluckily young Roma is now engaged to him. Have a drink?”

      “Thanks.” Fitzturgis settled himself in the chair facing the shiny desk. His deepset eyes took in the pictures of horses on the walls.

      “Later,” said Renny, “I’ll show you the tack-room and our trophies.”

      “I’d like that,” said Fitzturgis, and added: “Roma’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? Innocent and rather wistful-looking.”

      “She is,” agreed Renny. “She’s a nice girl at times. At other times I should like to take a stick to her back. Her father, my brother Eden, died a good many years ago. I sometimes wonder what he would have thought of her.” He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one and unlocked a cupboard. Fitzturgis glimpsed a strange assortment of objects, from among which Renny selected a bottle half filled with Scotch and a syphon of soda-water.

      Their drinks in their hands, they regarded each other across the desk in an odd, forced intimacy, having nothing to