.

severely. She led the way into the house. On the table in the dining room stood a squat bottle of grape juice and a plate of small biscuits. Presiding over these was Wragge, the houseman. He was a cockney who had been batman to Renny Whiteoak in the first Great War, had returned with him to Jalna, had become the devoted though critical servant of the family, further entrenching himself by marrying the cook. Again he had followed the master of Jalna to war, helped to save his life at Dunkirk, had later that year been himself severely wounded and in 1941 been discharged from the army and returned to civilian life. His wife, the cook, had always been fat while he was thin. Now she was enormously fat while he was thin to emaciation. She suffered considerably from arthritis, and he more than a little from his old wound. Her temper had always been quick. His was the sort that smouldered and sputtered. Now both were highly explosive. Still she was thankful to have him back in the basement kitchen and he was thankful each morning to discover her mountainous body beside him when he woke. He would put his arm about it, clinging to it as a shipwrecked man to a raft.

      Together they did the greater part of the work in the house that was far from convenient to work in, where there were two old gentlemen who had, from infancy, been waited on and who expected summoning bells to be answered with celerity. To Alayne, Renny’s wife, fell the task of bed-making and dusting, of getting three children off to school in term time, of mending, of darning, of making the little girls do some share of the work, of supervising their studies.

      Early in the war Pheasant and her two boys had come to live at Jalna, their house being let. At the time it had been considered a good arrangement but it had not worked out well — two women with different ideas of how a house should be run — too many children — too much noise for the uncles. At the end of six months Pheasant’s tenants departed and she thankfully returned with her boys to her own home, a general thanksgiving arising at the same time from Jalna.

      Now Wragge came forward, beaming, to greet young Maurice.

      “Welcome ’ome, sir. This is an ’appy day for the family, sir. Not only to see you return but to see you return with a fortune.”

      Maurice shook hands with him. “Thank you, Rags,” he said, rather embarrassed.

      “I remember,” said Wragge, “when you were born, as if it was yesterday.

      I remember when you was a little codger and your father used to carry you about on his shoulder. A great pity about your father, isn’t it, sir?”

      “Yes, it’s a great pity.”

      “He was a well-set-up gentleman and one with a good walk — a soldierly figure. Ah, well, we’ll be glad to see ’im ’ome, no matter ’ow he comes. War is hell and no mistike. I ain’t the man I was, Mr. Maurice.

      You may ’ave noticed.”

      “You do look a bit thin, Rags.”

      “Thin is no nime for it! But — ’ave you seen my missus? She weighs fourteen stone, she does.”

      He filled two glasses with the grape juice, remarking, “We’ve reached a low ebb ’ere, where liquid refreshment is concerned, sir. It’s not like the old days. To be sure, the old gentlemen keep a small supply for their own use but they guards it fierce. This ’ere grape wine my wife made last year and it’s pretty good, if I do say it. Miss Adeline enjoys it. Don’t you, miss? Wot do you think of our young lidy, sir?”

      “I think she’s grown.”

      Rags looked dotingly at Adeline. “Grown! Why, she might pass for fifteen and she’s only thirteen! Give her another year and she’ll be ’aving admirers — if she ’asn’t already. I suspect that she ’as, if the truth was known.”

      Adeline smiled imperturbably. But Maurice did not like the man’s familiarity. It was of a different quality from the familiarity of Irish servants. Seeing Adeline standing there under the portrait of her great-grandmother, the wineglass in her hand, Maurice had the desire to protect her. There was a new something about her that appealed to his developing manhood. After all, he thought, I am almost a man, I am the only young man at Jalna. Adeline needs looking after.

      “Ave a biscuit, sir?” asked Rags, proffering the plate. “I’ll bet you don’t get biscuits like these in Ireland.”

      “No, thank you. I’ve had a very late breakfast.”

      Rags exclaimed, “Well, I must be off. I’ve promised to pluck two chickens for Mrs. Wragge.” He hastened down the basement stairs, warning as he left, “Don’t you go drinking too much of that there grape juice, Miss. It ’as a real kick in it.”

      Left alone the two cousins were silent for a space. Adeline was systematically eating the cookies. Presently Maurice asked, in a new intimate tone:

      “Do you like that fellow?”

      “Yes,” she answered laconically. “Don’t you?”

      “No. I don’t. I think he’s cheeky.”

      “Oh, Rags is all right. As a matter of fact, he and I almost run this house.”

      Maurice stared. “You do?”

      “Well, when we want a thing done, we generally get it done.”

      “Oh, I see.”

      “This place,” she went on, as she finished the last biscuit, “is going to rack and ruin.”

      “Is it really? Why is that?”

      “Well, in the house everything is out of repair. The roof. The plumbing. Everything. There’s no money for repairs. But the farm is far worse. We’ve one farmhand. We used to have four. Wright is the only man in the stables. Wright and I run the stables. If it wasn’t for us they’d be sunk.”

      “You must be pretty busy.”

      She nodded her head vigorously. “You bet I am. Like to feel my muscle?” She drew up the sleeve of her shirt and flexed the muscle in her round brown arm.

      Maurice laid his hand on it and pressed.

      “By George!” he exclaimed.

      “Let’s feel yours.”

      He drew back. “No.”

      “You’re ashamed of it!”

      “No, I’m not.”

      “I’ll bet it’s as flabby as a poached egg.”

      “Feel it, then.” He extended his arm.

      She felt his muscle and looked aghast. “Gosh!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you take any exercise?”

      “Well, I play some tennis and I walk a good deal.”

      A smile lit her face, imparting an almost sardonic quality to its childish beauty. She said:

      “You’ll soon get a muscle here.”

      “How?” Maurice spoke defensively, deciding that she was not as pretty as he had at first thought.

      “Oh, hammering in the heads of apple barrels — digging potatoes — there are lots of ways. You don’t like horses, do you?”

      “I don’t like riding,” he answered resolutely.

      “I’ve always heard that about you. Wright says it’s because you had too many falls schooling polo ponies. But falls haven’t turned me against riding. Like to come and see the horses?”

      “I think I ought to go and find my mother.”

      “Come upstairs first and see my room.”

      “Very well.”

      She led the way to the room that had been her father’s. Inside she tried to soften the look of pride that had come over her face. “I used to sleep on the top floor with the other children,” she said, casually, “but last spring I moved down here. It’s more convenient in case the uncles or Mummy need me and I like