On the present occasion Miss Susan had lured her reluctant niece to a meeting at Upstreet--a village about ten miles from Ottinge; in fact, she made such a point of Aurea’s company, of Aurea’s support--whether in success or failure--that the girl felt compelled to go--and, at any rate, she took a sincere pride in Susan’s modest triumphs. The tournament was prolonged till seven o’clock; Miss Susan was detained, being in the Finals. Dusk was closing on the world when the two ladies, with two prizes (salad bowl and a silver cigarette-case), took their departure. The prize-winner, in exuberant spirits, uttering effusive expressions of enjoyment and thanks, had talked herself into the car, and there were so many after-thoughts and messages that even the chauffeur became impatient with his dear Miss Susan; he was desperately anxious to get home and hear the result of the search for Captain Ramsay. It was an unusually close evening--there was thunder in the air--and the interior of the motor was stuffy even with the windows down on both sides--and how they rattled! The old machine trundled along at its best speed, as if inspired by the fear of Miss Parrett awaiting its arrival, watch in hand. Its driver had another and more well-grounded dread in his mind. The ladies within discussed the recent party, the play, the prizes, and the guests. “The Wendovers were there; did you see them?” said Miss Susan--“Mrs. Wendover and Gertrude. I thought they both looked very ill.” “Yes, and I believe it was from hunger, Susan,” was her niece’s surprising reply. “I never saw such a tea as they had--surreptitiously. It’s shameful to watch, I know, but I was not playing, and happened to be sitting near, and could not help myself. I felt so frightfully sorry for them--I was inclined to cry!” “My dear girl, surely you are not in earnest?” “I only wish I wasn’t. Gertrude had a whole plate of sandwiches, besides cakes; she took them quietly, when no one was looking, and devoured them ravenously, and her mother pocketed several buns and lumps of sugar.” “But why? I don’t understand.” “Because probably they have nothing to eat at home! Mrs. Lucas, the parson’s wife, told me in confidence that they are almost penniless; the little money they had has been lost in some bank that tempted people with high interest and then went smash. The Wendovers cling to the old cottage--it’s their own--but they have no servant; they do their own washing and, very early in the morning, their own doorstep! Everything is spick and span still. After dark they steal out and collect firewood and apples, and even field turnips, and yet they hold up their heads and ‘pretend.’ I heard Mrs. Wade pressing them to have cake and tea--and they declined.” “Have they no friends or relations?”