“I know. Never mind. He has. And you’ve dead-heated—you and . . . the man I love.” Punch put a hand to his head. “Well, here’s a go,” he said. “What do we do now? You can’t marry us both.” With a half-laugh, half-sob, Athalia slid her arms round his neck. “Yes, I can, my darling. You see, you’re both called Punch.” ANN ANN Lady Ann Minter alighted thankfully. After the burden and heat of the third-class carriage the evening air of Suet was like a drink of water—out of a dirty mug. Still, it was water: and the journey down had been hell. After all, the tip of a beggar’s finger made a desirable continent for a certain rich man. Her husband took her arm and shepherded her out of the press. “See now, kid,” he said tenderly, setting her dressing-case down, “you jus’ stay ’ere an’ watch out for me. I’m off to find your trunk.” “All right, Bob,” said Lady Ann Minter. Alone for the first time since her marriage, she strove to marshal her thoughts. These, however, were mutinous. The flight of opportunity, the welter of noise and movement on the fringe of which she stood undermined her authority. It was vital that she should think quickly and clearly, that she should make up her mind. Everything was depending upon immediate decision. But the very premises were denied her. She was wild to face the facts: but the facts danced and flickered and would not be faced. Hideous, blazing queries blinded her fumbling brain. She found herself reading them aloud. “Why didn’t I think of all this? How can I possibly bear it? What shall I do—_do_?” And then the scorching answers. “God knows . . . I must . . . _Nothing_. . . .” She saw her father standing with his back to the log-laden hearth—saw his white, set face and his tightened lips. There were roses on the mantelpiece behind him, and a Morland hanging above—a spreading oak and a cottage and a jolly brown horse. . . . and a woman was standing in the doorway, holding a little boy, and a man on the horse was smiling . . . and they were all alone and happy, under the spreading oak . . . very poor and simple, but alone and very happy. . . . She saw her aunt on her knees with tears running down her face—saw the china ranged orderly upon the walls—smelt the pot-pourri she had made the year before. The evening sun was pouring into the chamber, planting badges of gold on plate and bowl and pitcher, turning the closet into a queen’s parlour. . . . She saw the register office and the registrar’s face like a mask, heard the cameras click as she and Bob passed out, felt the insolent stares of the waiter who brought them lunch. . . . The journey down had been frightful. The heat, the discomfort, the everlasting talk. . . .