Shy or no, she was contented, utterly, to be sitting there beside him in the August sunlight, speeding between stretches of ripe cornland; between purple sweeps of heather, when they climbed a ridge; and on through rolling open country where the earlier trees showed a yellow leaf or two, and the oaks were still sunset-tinted with their second blossoming. England, relying serenely upon her grey ghosts of the North Sea, lay dozing in the high noon of the year, while little Belgium, like another Kate Barlass, thrust her arm through the bolt that the murderers might be stayed were it only for a moment. A Territorial Camp, an occasional motor decked with flags, a group of khaki figures resting in the shade—these were the sole reminders of that invisible horror across the Channel, that for Bel was no more than the shadow of a shadow; though the cloud of it overhung her own life and sat visibly upon her lover’s brow. Every now and then she took stock of him under her eyelids, from his rough motor-cap and his sensitive mouth, safe-guarded by that uncompromising chin, to the lean, strong fingers controlling the machine. A woman could safely entrust her destiny to that mouth and those hands, though she might wish, incidentally, that he would take a less exaggerated view of this singularly inopportune war. It was just her luck that it should have been timed to spoil the most promising ‘phase’ of her life. If only Mark’s admirable virility were tempered by a touch of Rex Maitland’s intelligent common sense, matters would be so much easier and pleasanter all round. And the coming interview with Lady Forsyth was a nuisance, to put it mildly: but still⸺ ‘Have I given you time to get through the worst of your troublesome affairs?’ she asked after an interchange of commonplaces that led nowhere. ‘I’m hoping for a clear field as the reward of my lost week.’ He gave her a contrite glance. ‘I wish it were clearer. Russell, my land-agent, has played up like a Trojan. But the wood seems to thicken as one goes on. And to-day I’m booked for a recruiting show at Bramleigh. No getting out of it. Sir Nevil Sinclair—the artist, you know—said I _must_ manage to placate you somehow. So please _be_ placated and save me the managing!’ Down went the corners of her mouth. ‘Our first day! And not even Mr. Lenox to play with.’ ‘Won’t Sheila do?’ ‘As a substitute for _you_? Mark, your modesty is incredible! Is she with you still?’ ‘She came back yesterday.’ ‘And Mr. Macnair?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Are they part of your permanent family, those two?’ ‘More or less. People just accrue to Mums. Are you placated now—Queen of Wynchcombe Friars?’ She laid gloved finger-tips on his knee. ‘I’m trying to be. I vowed a vow to be heavenly good this time, to make up for....’ His hand closed on hers. ‘That’s over and done with,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry—even about Mother. But it seemed only fair. I’ll take you to her straight—’