It was so nearly lunch time that it did not seem worth while resuming their skating. Besides, with Claire Latimer’s refusal to join them, the occupation seemed to have lost some of its charm, and when Jean suggested a return to the house Nick assented readily. “She is very sweet--young Lady Latimer,” remarked Jean, as they walked back over the frostily crisp turf. “But she looks rather sad. And she isn’t the kind of person one associates with sadness. There’s something so young and fresh about her; she makes one think of spring flowers.” Nick’s face kindled. “Yes, she’s like that, isn’t she?” he answered eagerly. “Like a pale golden narcissus.” They walked on in silence for a few minutes, the thoughts of each of them dwelling on the woman who had just left them. Then Jean said softly: “So that’s the ‘prior claim?’” “Yes,” he acknowledged simply. “You never mentioned that she had a husband concealed somewhere. I quite thought she was a widow till she suddenly mentioned him.” “I never think of him as her husband”--shortly. “You can’t mate light and darkness.” “I suppose he’s an invalid?” ventured Jean. Rick’s face darkened. “He’s a drug fiend,” he said in a low, hard voice. “Oh!” After that one breathless exclamation of horror Jean remained silent. The swift picture conjured up before her eyes by Rick’s terse speech was unspeakably revolting. Years ago she had heard her father describing the effect of the drug habit upon a friend of his own who had yielded to it. He had been telling her mother about it, characteristically oblivious of the presence of a child of eleven in the room at the time, and some of Glyn Peterson’s poignant, illuminating phrases, punctuated by little, stricken murmurs of pity from Jacqueline, had impressed a painfully accurate picture on the plastic mind of childhood. Ever since then, drug-mania had represented to Jean the uttermost abyss. And now, the vision of that slender, gracious woman, Rick’s “pale golden narcissus,” tied for life to a man who must ultimately become that which Glyn Peterson’s friend had become, filled her with compassionate dismay. It was easy enough, now, to comprehend Claire Latimer’s curious lack of warmth when Jean expressed the hope that she might go over to Charnwood some day. It sprang from the nervous shrinking of a woman at the prospect of being driven to unveil before fresh eyes the secret misery and degradation of her life. Jean was still silent as she and Nick re-entered the hall at Staple. It was empty, and as, by common consent, they instinctively drew towards the fire Nick pulled forward one of the big easy-chairs for her. Then he stood gloomily staring down into the leaping flames, much as Tormarin had stood the previous evening. Intuitively she knew that he wanted to give her his confidence. “Tell me about it, Nick,” she said quietly. “May I?” The words jerked out like a sigh of relief. He dropped into a chair beside her.