“It’s true,” she went on, her voice half whimsical, half sad. “I never stood up to life and it broke me. If I had, I should not be the useless creature I am to-day. Cynthia will fight like a little tiger and come out at the end, scarred perhaps, but probably a wiser and better woman than she was before. There’s something gallant about her. . . .” Her voice trailed off and he knew she was thinking of the past. “Useless creature is grossly inaccurate,” he said gruffly. “No one who has seen you with Edward could call you that.” She turned on him eagerly. “Do you think he’s happy?” she asked with an insistence that surprised him. “He gives so much and I seem to have so little to offer in return.” “You are everything to him,” he answered with conviction. “I have never seen a man so changed. I believe he’s younger now at heart than he was when I first knew him.” “His capacity for work is still inhuman. If he hadn’t got nerves like steel he would have broken down long ago. I feel frightened about him sometimes. He’s so incapable of half-measures. Sometimes I think these very strong people are really the weakest. Their hold on things is so tremendous that when they lose them . . .” She made a little gesture with her hand, a hand so frail that Fayre turned his eyes away from it quickly. His protest was as much for his own reassurance as for hers. “I don’t think Edward’s of the kind to lose anything once he’s got it,” he asserted with a cheeriness he tried to feel. “He’s a very lucky man, Sybil.” He was more moved than he cared to show, and for a time he sat smoking in silence. When he spoke, it was to lead the conversation back to its original subject. “I’m intrigued about our friend the minx,” he said. “What’s she up to that she should arrive at country houses in the middle of the night?” Lady Kean laughed. “That’s an exaggeration of Edward’s. She’s motoring over and dining with a Miss Allen on the way. She’ll probably be here before twelve. As to what she’s up to, I’ve got my own suspicions.” Fayre settled himself comfortably in his chair. “This is gossip,” he said fervently. “Tell me some more.” “It isn’t gossip; on the contrary, it’s solid fact. Cynthia is at present engaged in bringing down her mother’s grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. The result is that she’s having rather a thin time at home just now.” “It’s a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Cynthia’s mother,” remarked Fayre thoughtfully. “But I seem to remember that I never liked her.” “She set her heart on a good match for Cynthia and of course the inevitable happened. The wretched child has engaged herself to a boy with nothing to recommend him but a fine war record and an inadequate pension. Her mother is beside herself and, in a way, I don’t blame her. Cynthia might have married anybody.” “Instead of which she’s marrying a nobody. And you like him.”