It was a very hot, still afternoon. Even the shadows of the beech trees were motionless and unflickering. The servants had taken away the remains of the feast and the motor cars had been discreetly manœuvered to some invisible point on the horizon. By far the most sophisticated things within sight were the bridge players. Nancy Fazackerly, coming toward me by herself, blended quite agreeably into the surrounding green, in her pale green linen frock with her ash-blonde hair uncovered. I have known her nearly all her life, and, as one of the very few young women on earth whose society Claire could tolerate, she had spent quite a lot of time with us since her return to Cross Loman. Doubts, however, had for some time been assailing me as to the security of that state of affairs, and something in her face as she sat down beside me brought all my misgivings into active life. “I wish,” said Mrs. Fazackerly gently, “that I knew what to do.” “When a woman says that, it generally means that her mind is made up.” Nancy laughed, but she said, “Mine isn’t.” I suppose that if one of the Kendals had been there she would immediately have inquired, “Has he asked you yet?” I have not, however, been brought up by Mumma, and so these unflinching methods are beyond me. Moreover, I did not imagine for a minute that Nancy really wanted advice, any more than anybody else ever wants it. She only needed someone to whom she could talk more or less freely. “You know that my dear father is sometimes a little--peculiar,” she began in a hesitating way. “I know--and you know--” said I, “that he treats you disgracefully. Yes. Let’s come to the point, my dear.” “Can you imagine that he would ever tolerate the idea of my leaving him again?” “If you mean, do I think that he would take it lying down, no, I don’t. But in your place, I shouldn’t allow him a word in the matter.” “You are always so brave,” she said wistfully. “And you are always so cowardly.” Then I felt rather ashamed of having said that, remembering that, after all, she had stuck to Fazackerly, from whom most women would probably have fled at the end of six weeks. But Nancy only said sadly, “I know I am.” “Is it Christopher?” I asked, well knowing that it was. She nodded. “I know you can’t say you’re glad,” she added hastily. “But I should be glad, to see you happy.” “It’s very nice of you.” We were both thinking of Claire, but our conversation, as is the way of most conversations, made no mention of that of which we were thinking. “I cannot imagine what Father would do, all by himself, although he does say that I am such a bad housekeeper. And it would be quite impossible to have anything like a joint establishment.” I nearly said, “God forbid!” as I thought of old Carey, and his incessant grumbling, and his stinginess, and his criminology. “Is your father the only reason why you’re hesitating?” She gave me a most expressive look.