And Coral, the married woman, the woman of her world, admitted to herself, with a laugh and a touch of envy, that there were things in Brackenhurst undreamed of in her philosophy, and that their names were Laura Valentine and Henry Justin Cloud. Also, with admirable wisdom, that she had much better leave them to work out their own salvation in their own amazing way. But you don’t suppose that she did? Surely the resolve was enough to stamp her an unusual woman. You cannot expect her to abide by it. Such a fascinating pie as she had found, too, at Brackenhurst and so badly in need of a stir: and she born with the very finger for it, the crooked, enquiring, blunt-tipped finger of the artist in such cookery! And Brackenhurst, save for this godsend of a pie, was such a dull place to be resting in, though she owed Johnnie’s folk the visit and it was doing Timothy good—that, with an ache at her heart, she realized. She asked herself sometimes if she should ever dare take Timothy from this, so obviously his own place. His cheeks were so rosy, and his nurse so competent, and his poor little manners so much improved that she felt at times half afraid of him—or herself. She could not see this new Timothy with her any more in lodgings and dressing-rooms and trains. And yet, how could she stay on indefinitely at the Priory? She who was homesick already for her own familiar world of bustle and bright lights, and scent, and dirt, and chocolate, and men, and overwork. Brackenhurst for a week-end was as good as a picture palace; but she had been there a month now and there was nothing in the world to do but talk to Laura. She thanked her stars for Laura. She admired Laura, would have given her an introduction to a manager with hearty goodwill. It amused her to shock Laura, and yet Laura’s wondering eyes could hurt her. She had a queer tenderness for her, as for a child: and yet she did not spare her. She told herself that it did Laura good to jump. And the relief of reckless speech was great. “What a queer mark!” said Laura to her one day. Coral had slipped off her blouse and was trying on a half-made bodice. Laura, hovering round her with pins and scissors, had noticed a white three-cornered scar on Coral’s bare shoulder. “That?” Coral laughed. “Johnnie did that. Poor Johnnie! How upset he was next day!” “How did it happen?” said Laura. “It’s quite a bad mark. Keep still.” “Chair-leg,” said Coral, without emotion. “What?” Laura’s pins dropped from her hands. She stared at Coral with wide, incredulous eyes. Coral looked at her with curious, amused detachment. “Do you mean to say,” she drawled, “that you didn’t know what was wrong with Johnnie?” “Oh, Coral!” Laura’s great eyes were eloquent. But Coral shrugged off the idea of sympathy. She was quite genuinely matter-of-fact. “My dear, he didn’t mean it. He couldn’t help it. They’re not themselves, you know. They don’t know what they’re doing. Johnnie was like a mad bull sometimes—poor Johnnie!”