This—as may be supposed—was not precisely the cue Bel had prepared for herself. But she had the adaptability of the born actress; and she recognised that Lady Forsyth had paid her the embarrassing compliment of speaking her mind as to a daughter. ‘That’s rather a crushing form of forgiveness!’ she said, with the pretty droop of her lips. ‘And I don’t suppose it’s much use trying to explain....’ ‘Not the slightest, my dear.’ Lady Forsyth’s tone was brisk but kindly. ‘Facts, like beauty, are best left unadorned. I take it for granted you must have been very much upset to hurt a brave man so unnecessarily. Had your refusal been final, I could have better understood.’ The girl flinched at that and bit her lip. ‘You don’t sound much like forgiving me. And I don’t think,’ she made bold to add, ‘that Mark would be quite pleased if he heard you.’ ‘He would probably bite my head off,’ Lady Forsyth answered, taking the wind out of her sails. ‘And if you want to make him angry with me, you can tell him what I have said. I should say just the same if he were present. Mark and I are in complete accord, however much we squabble. He knows my bark is worse than my bite: and you’ll soon know it too, Bel. So don’t let’s write in brass what is meant to be writ in water. We shall gain nothing by making Mark our apple of discord. He’s a very large apple, big enough for two! Now, after that, let me “behave” and show you to your room. Later on, you must see over the dear old house.’ ‘Yes. It’s a dream of a place.’ Bel swerved thankfully to a more congenial subject and the still more congenial reflection that all this stately, soft-toned beauty would some day be her own. Once this wretched war was over, everything would go swimmingly. He would settle down and shed some of his troublesome ideals. That flat in town—which she had already chosen and furnished mentally—would be the best possible antidote for what she vaguely styled ‘that sort of thing.’ She washed her hands and tidied her smooth hair in a frame of mind too serene even to be clouded by the prospect of a whole afternoon without Mark. And downstairs, alone in the drawing-room, Lady Forsyth was playing Grieg’s Temple dance with a fire and fury that brought Keith in from the terrace, startled concern in his eyes. ‘Bless my soul, Helen! Who are you wanting to murder now? The Crown Prince or one of our own super-Solomons?’ ‘Neither,’ she answered, crashing out the last double chord. Then, swinging round on the stool she faced him with heightened colour, head in air. ‘It’s Mark’s future wife. And I’m in terror that he’ll want to marry before he goes out. Keith—it’s not only wicked prejudice. I distrust her more than ever. She came to me with a pretty, ready-made apology which I am afraid I dislocated by my incurable candour. Then, having let fly for my own satisfaction, I proceeded to smooth things over for love of Mark. Told her my bark was worse than my bite.’