Ursula did not inform Doug of the impending arrival. He would naturally ask: “Where are we to put her?” and she was not prepared to answer: “I’m making room for her by running away with Louis Gregson on the same day.” Aunt Lavvy’s opportune arrival, in the midst of chaos and bewilderment, should be a miracle to Doug--until she explained Ursula’s invitation. And even then, he would never be able to account for it. “This is all--_fun_!” thought Ursula, exultant at the way the figures and dates in her plan slipped neatly into shape, without objection or hitch. Fun, too, that she was doing it all alone; that whereas Louis knew of her flight from Doug, and Aunt Lavvy knew she was expected at Grey Stone on the following Friday, and Doug knew that his love for Christine was the love of his life, yet these were only shreds and particles of the sumptuous whole, Ursula’s whole, containing all secrets and all knowledge. It was she who was welding them together, with added touches of her own sprite’s mischief; rounding it off, remembering here and there a flaw to be adjusted.... Proud; for she was not doing wrong. To efface herself so that Doug and Christine should be happy together. Ah, surely that was sacrifice; and it would not count against her, in that she had worked her scheme skilfully, with a laugh of renunciation instead of the eternal tears. She took no pains over the arrangement of her end of the escapade. Her own future, once disentangled from Doug and Christine, she trusted to hazard or inspiration. On only one point she set her teeth and pressed her lips sternly together: that Louis would--have--to--be--managed. [VII] THURSDAY evening, Ursula was in the kitchen with Cissy--explaining patiently for perhaps the fortieth time that cold water poured directly into a saucepan which had held milk will clean it better than hot. She felt a little bit unreal as she did so. Christine swung her legs indolently from the kitchen table, and listened to the lecture. A strong gale was buffeting the house. Suddenly an urgent rapping shook the door. Mr. Wright hurled it open and staggered into the lamplight, with the bread-basket. The wind and rain leapt in after him. He turned and fought the door, closing it after a grim struggle. “Good evening, Mrs. Barrison.” He was rather breathless, and spoke in the voice of one amazed at his own calm. Ursula was mildly surprised. This was more or less the wonted time for their loaves to arrive, but Mr. Wright usually sent the boy, and did not bring them himself. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s a wild evening, isn’t it?” “There’ll be wilder evenings before we’ve done with the year. I don’t want to alarm you, Mrs. Barrison, but there’s rumours of negotiations broken down, and the railway strike starting at midnight. In fact, I’ve had news through”--he stopped abruptly, recollecting prudence. “So I thought I’d better take the bread round myself tonight,” he finished.