‘I--I couldn’t hit it off.... I--of course I could see she was--very nice ... I could understand why you--were so fond of her....’ He floundered on, his eyes fixed on the road in front of him, his foot gradually forgetting to press the accelerator. ‘But you seemed--quite different when she was there ... at least you were different to me. It felt as if we were strangers.’ She sighed again, and said patiently: ‘I’m sorry, Martin.’ Impossible to try to explain to him. What he said was all so true. Let him think what he liked: she was not responsible to him for her behaviour, not obliged, as he seemed to think, to treat him with consideration. Dull, dull, tiresome Martin. No wonder he had roused a devil in Jennifer. ‘Oh!’ he said, overcome. ‘Good heavens, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about. I wasn’t meaning to accuse you.’ ‘It sounded as if you were,’ she said in an aggrieved voice. It was an easy game, upsetting Martin. ‘Oh, Judy, you _know_ I wasn’t,’ he said unhappily; and in his agitation he completely forgot to accelerate, and the car slowed down till she scarcely crawled. ‘Hey, sir!’ shouted Julian from the back. ‘May I ask what you are up to, sir? Does the road belong to you, sir, or does it not?’ Martin made a grimace over his shoulder and drove on. ‘All I meant,’ he said presently, very quietly, ‘was that I’d missed you awfully, and that I’m terribly glad I’ve--I’ve met you again.’ ‘So am I, Martin. Honestly I am.’ She was remorseful. ‘I’m going away to-morrow--must get back to the farm.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I wonder if--I’d awfully like you to meet my mother. Would it bore you frightfully to come and stay?’ ‘It wouldn’t bore me one little bit. I’d love to meet your mother.’ ‘Oh, good!’ He beamed. ‘I’d love to show you my home. It’s rather nice.’ Mariella leaned over his shoulder to say: ‘Drive straight to the station, Martin. Julian will miss his train if we don’t hurry.’ In another ten minutes they were at the station. ‘We’ll come and see you off, Julian,’ said Mariella. ‘I mustn’t wait,’ said Judith. ‘Mamma’s having supper early. I promised I’d be back. Good-bye and thank you all very very much. Good-bye, Julian.’ She held out her hand to him. He took it and elegantly kissed it. ‘_Au revoir, mademoiselle_,’ he said. ‘_Nous nous reverrons au mois d’Août. Sans faute, n’est ce pas?_’ She nodded. ‘_Alors au plaisir_....’ He gave her one searching look, waved his hand and disappeared into the booking-office. Mariella, following him, turned back for a moment to say in a small voice: ‘Good-bye, Judith. I’ll see you again, shan’t I?’ Her face was for once without its little smile. It was composed and--yes--quite grown up: yes, it had turned into one of those unnumbered women’s faces, masked with a faint fixed perplexity and sadness: and, behind the mask, not alive at all. She turned to Martin who still lingered beside her. ‘Then--if my mother writes to you?--’ he said. ‘Yes, Martin. I’ll come.’