Hitherto she had encountered little difficulty in getting pretty much her own way with the men of her acquaintance; she had sufficient of the temperament and charm of the red-haired type to compass that. But her efforts to elucidate the cause of the change in Blaise Tormarin were about as prolific of result as the efforts of a butterfly at stone-breaking. Fortunately for the preservation of peace, at this juncture there came the sound of voices, and Lady Anne entered the room, accompanied by a visitor. Her clever, grey eyes flashed quickly from Jean’s flushed face to that of her son, but, if she sensed the electricity in the atmosphere, she made no comment. “Blaise, my dear, here is Judith,” she said pleasantly. “I found her wandering forlornly in the lanes, so I drove her back here. She has just returned from town, and for some reason her car wasn’t at the station to meet her.” “I wired home saying what time I should reach Coombe Eavie,” explained the new-comer. “But as I was rather late reaching Waterloo, I rashly entrusted the wire to a small boy to send off for me, and I’m afraid he’s played me false. I should have had to trudge the whole way back to Willow Ferry if Lady Anne hadn’t happened along.” Lady Anne turned to Jean, and, laying an affectionate hand on her arm, drew her forward. “Jean, let me introduce you to Mrs. Craig. My new acquisition, Judith, she went on contentedly. A daughter. I always told you I wanted one. Now I’ve borrowed someone else’s.” Jean found herself shaking hands with a slender, distinctive-looking woman who moved with a slow, languorous grace that was almost snake-like in its peculiar suppleness. She gave one the impression that she had no bones in her body, or that if she had, they had never hardened properly but still retained the pliability of cartilage. She was somewhat sallow--the consequence, it transpired later, of long residence in India--with sullen, slate-coloured eyes, appearing almost purple in shadow, and a straight, thin-lipped mouth. Jean decided that she was not in the least pretty, though attractive in an odd, feline way, and that she must be about thirty-two. As a matter of fact, Judith Craig was forty, but no one would have guessed it--and she would certainly not have confided it. Presently Nick, who had been personally supervising the feeding of his beloved dogs, joined the party, greeting Mrs. Craig with the easy informality of an old friend, and shortly afterwards Baines brought in the tea-things. “And where is Burke?” enquired Blaise, of Mrs. Craig, as he handed her tea. “Didn’t he come back with you?” “Geoffrey? Oh, no. He’s not coming down till the end of April. You know he detests Willow Ferry in the winter--‘beastly wet swamp,’ he calls it! He’s dividing his time between London and Leicestershire--London, while that long frost stopped all hunting.”