“I know. Of course. Of course I know. And—and—” she flushed prettily. “All I meant—I only mean, my dear—it’s no business of mine—but if you want backing, I’ll back you. There’s a telephone in the next room. He’s at Maidstone, isn’t he? It’s a trunk call. Aunt Adela won’t be in till supper. You go and talk things over with Robin.” * * * * * And the end of it was that Annabel and Laura went up to town by an early train one fine morning, for a day’s shopping. And indeed they did buy various trifles, besides a white coat and skirt, and a white beaver hat, and an inconspicuous bunch of lilies of the valley with a sprig of orange blossom tucked away in the middle—but they were a present from Laura. Laura came home alone with a note for Mrs. Moulde and another for Mrs. Gedge in her pocket (she thrust them through the letter-boxes and fled) and, as I told you, was cold-shouldered by the vicarage long after Robin and Annabel had been forgiven. But though Mrs. Cloud included the vicarage set in her visitors’ list, the vicarage set could not claim the honour of including Mrs. Cloud. At any rate, Mrs. Cloud gave no sign of disapprobation: might have been thought, indeed, to be kinder of late to Laura. But Mrs. Cloud was always kind. Certainly it did Laura no harm to be met at the Priory more often than usual by Brackenhurst: indeed, as she called in for the third day running on some small errand—a basket of early primroses, I believe, that a school child had given her, but that were so obviously grown for the great glass bowl in the yellow parlour that she had to pass them on—she thought, to herself, she would not permit herself to think, that it was like old times.... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXIII Laura handed her basket to the maid, but she had not long to wait. Mrs. Cloud was at home, quite eagerly at home to an opportune Laura. Laura wondered at the warmth of her greeting, at the gaiety of her air. It was the first fine day of the spring, and the sun was doing his best for an earth still wind-swept and doubtfully green, yet the light and warmth and the radiance that filled the room seemed to emanate, not from him, but from Mrs. Cloud herself, sitting in a glory by her windowful of half grown daffodils, her lap a tumble of telegram and envelope and Laura’s primroses, young lights in her eyes, and a letter, a letter, in her hand. Justin had got his leave, Laura! Justin had got his leave at last! Justin was coming home—had written twice—contradictorily—and now a wire! He would be home tomorrow night. And in the meantime his letter had come, the letter he had written before he was quite sure.