“But why?” inquired Chris, pertly. “It isn’t the French Revolution, is it?” “That’s not a word I’d throw about lightly just now, Miss Powys,” replied Mr. Wright, respectfully--but his hand went to his coat pocket with a gesture grimly significant. “Well--if there’s trouble, I’m ready for them. I’ve got my six-shooter handy. Not that I’m one to lose my head. I don’t expect any real rioting in a place like this till supplies begin to be cut off. And then my shop’ll be the first.... I must go on.” He buttoned himself up, pulled forward his hat, and by mere suggestion achieved a muffled effect. “Good night, Mrs. Barrison. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” “Will you yourself bring the bread tomorrow evening too?” asked Chris, joyously, determining that Doug should not fail to be present. “_God willing!_” Mr. Wright was silhouetted for a brief moment against the stormy and perilous blackness beyond the open door, and then went forth--distinctly went “forth” and not merely “out.” Quick retreating footsteps ... and he and his bread basket were seen no more that night. In silence, Ursula continued to scour the saucepan she held. “Is it true, or d’you think he made it all up?” demanded Christine, still flushed with the effort not to laugh in the very face of Mr. Wright’s histrionics. “It may quite well be true that the negotiations have broken down at the eleventh hour. Haven’t you read the papers lately?” Christine shook her head. “The papers” were many million miles removed from her sea-room and enchantment. “They expected it all to be settled quite happily by now, so I didn’t bother, but....” “Then we’ll none of us be able to travel after midnight, will we?” “Not for two or three weeks, or however long the strike lasts.” “Oh well,” Chris exclaimed philosophically, springing from her perch on the table, “we none of us want to, so it doesn’t much matter!” And now she could not possibly go home, however conscience might prompt it. No trains from Gullick! Perfection enclosed Grey Stone and snapped around it indivisibly like a bracelet. Christine began to sing. At the same moment, Cissy Mitch started feebly to cry. Ursula lost her temper ... the saucepan clattered on to the red flagstones, and the kitchen door banged and reverberated behind her. Christine’s fresh pipings were not to be endured! “No wonder she’s in a rage with you,” Chris remarked blithely to Cissy Mitch. “What on earth are you crying about?” “Eh, miss, but tes dreadful, about they trains,” sobbed Cissy. “But, my dear kid, have you ever wanted to go as far as Gullick in your life? No? Well--have you even been to the next village, then? to Polpinnock?”