"Not until we can afford to do so," returned Nan, hastily, feeling that this was a safe compromise, and that they should be eked out somehow. And then, the stewed pigeons being regarded as a failure, Dorothy consented to remove the supper tray, and the long day was declared at an end. CHAPTER X. THE FRIARY. Oldfield was rather mystified by the Challoners' movements. There were absolutely three afternoons during which Nan and her sisters were invisible. There was a tennis-party at the Paines' on one of these days, but at the last minute they had excused themselves. Nan's prettily-worded note was declared very vague and unsatisfactory, and on the following afternoon there was a regular invasion of the cottage,--Carrie Paine, and two of the Twentyman girls, and Adelaide Sartoris and her young brother Albert. They found Dulce alone, looking very sad and forlorn. Nan and Phillis had gone down to Hadleigh that morning, she explained in rather a confused way: they were not expected back until the following evening. On being pressed by Miss Sartoris as to the reason of this sudden trip, she added, rather awkwardly, that it was on business; her mother was not well,--oh, very far from well; and they had to look at a house that belonged to them, as the tenant had lately died. This was all very plausible; but Dulce's manner was so constrained, and she spoke with such hesitation, that Miss Sartoris was convinced that something lay behind. They went out in the garden, however, and chose sides for their game of tennis; and, though Dulce had never played so badly in her life, the fresh air and exercise did her good, and at the end of the afternoon she looked a little less drooping. It was felt to be a failure, however, by the whole party; and when tea was over, there was no mention of a second game. "No, we will not stay any longer," observed Isabella Twentyman, kissing the girl with much affection. "Of course we understand that you will be wanting to sit with your mother." "Yes, and if you do not come in to-morrow we shall quite know how it is," added Miss Sartoris, good-naturedly, for which Dulce thanked her and looked relieved. She stood at the hall door watching them as they walked down the village street, swinging their racquets and talking merrily. "What happy girls!" she thought, with a sigh. Miss Sartoris was an heiress, and the Twentymans were rich, and every one knew that Carrie and Sophy Paine would have money. "None of them will have to work," said poor Dulce sorrowfully to herself: "they can go on playing tennis and driving and riding and dancing as long as they like." And then she went up to her mother's room with lagging footsteps and a cloudy brow. "You may depend upon it there is something amiss with those Challoners," said Miss Sartoris, as soon as they were out of sight of the cottage; "no one has seen anything of them for the last three or four days, and I never saw Dulce so unlike herself."