In the midst of it all Ann had felt Bob’s arm steal round her and his lips on her cheek. He had kept his arm about her for the rest of the trip. . . . And now— Again she tried to concentrate—haul her thoughts into line. They came sluggishly. Married . . . she was married . . . married to Bob—Bob Minter, one of her father’s grooms. She had done it because she loved him. She had married him in London that morning, and——That morning? Was it possible that it was only that morning? Was it only that morning that the registrar had bowed and . . . Her thoughts began to slip away. She let them go. She stared at her wedding-ring . . . touched—plucked at it desperately. The hideous queries and answers leapt like rams possessed. “Why? God knows. . . . How can I? I must. . . . What? _Nothing._” For an instant panic fear looked out of her steady grey eyes. Then— “All serene, kid. I’ve got the goods,” panted Bob. He turned to a shambling porter, thrusting a truck. “Say, mate, where d’you keep your taxis?” “Not ’ere,” said the porter. “Might get a keb.” He preceded them wearily. “You—you’ve got rooms, Bob?” faltered his bride. Her husband’s eyes shone as he slid an arm beneath hers. “Course I ’ave, kid.” He hesitated. Then, “I didn’ mean to tell you, but . . . I won’ be able to give you the ’ome you ought to ’ave—servants an’ cars an’ whatnot. More’s the pity. But jus’ this once—for this fortnight I’ve done my lady proud.” His voice began to tremble with excitement and pride. “You’ve got the bes’ room in Suet, darlin’—the best on the ’ole parade. There ain’t a fine lady in the town that’s got such a room. The Countess of ’Ampshire used to ’ave it, an’ all the ’igh muck-a-mucks ’ave bit an’ scratched to get it whenever they come this way. Firs’ floor—looks right over the pier. . . . An’ not a chair moved, nor a picture. You’ll ’ave it jus’ the same. You see, my aunt she keeps apartments—the best in Suet: an’ when we fixed things up I wrote to ’er, told ’er on the Q.T. an’ said I wanted ’er firs’ bedroom—jus’ for you. An’ she wrote beck an’ said that you should ’ave it if she ’ad to turn people out. She’s a good ’eart is old Aunt ’Arriet. Givin’ it us at a cut price, too—season an’ all. An’ we’ll grub with ’er an’ the girls an’ Uncle Tom—I tell you, kid, they don’t ’alf know ’ow to live. Why, you’ll be as fat as butter ’fore we go beck to Town.” Ann’s brain reeled. ‘Grub with her and the girls and Uncle Tom. . . . Grub with . . .’ The station-yard faded, and the Morland above the mantelpiece stole into view—the spreading oak and the cottage and the girl standing at the door . . . and the man on the horse smiling . . . the humble intimacy of the scene—the simple happiness—the precious privacy . . . _privacy_. . . .