"Yes, that's the worst of it. Their mother was a daughter of Lord Woodshire's, and I believe their father had rather a fine place near Chichester. But he went to the bad--ahem! shocking story--died in Paris--tut, tut!--the children were left to shift for themselves, and bought Sparrow Hall with their mother's money--all the Chichester estate was chucked away by old Furlonger." "I think they sound rather interesting. It's a pity the youngest should have embarked on the white slave traffic." "White slave traffic!--hush, my dear. Young girls don't talk about such things." "No--they get mixed up in 'em instead. Tony, I hope you'll meet your Mr. Smith again." "He's not my Mr. Smith," said Tony hotly. "Oh, it's impossible to talk to any one rationally to-night! Father's started on 'young girls,' and Tony's trying to make out she was born yesterday." She seized her sister by the arm. "Come upstairs and dress for dinner." Tony was only too glad to escape, and they went up to widely different rooms. Awdrey's was furnished with a telling combination of coquetry and sport. Silver toilet articles and embroidered cushions contrasted with her hunting-crop over the mantelpiece, her tennis racket on the wall. What struck one most, however, was the number of men's photographs which crowded the place. From frames of every conceivable fabric they stared with bold, glassy eyes. Awdrey smiled at them lovingly, as they woke either memory or emotion. She had once said that the male sex was roughly divisible into two groups--G.P.'s and H.P.'s--Grand Passions and Hideous Pasts. Tony gave them a scornful glance as she passed the door. Her own room was austere and white. An indefinable coolness haunted its empty corners and clear spaces. There were no photographs, as she had not yet unpacked the photographs of her girl friends which usually adorned the mantelpiece. There were only three pictures--a Memling Madonna, Holbein's Portrait of a Young Woman, and Watts' Sir Galahad, beloved of schoolgirls. Tony sat down on the bed and began to unplait her hair. "What a fool Awdrey is," she murmured to herself, "always thinking of love, and all that rot." CHAPTER III IN THE RAIN From Nigel's bed as well as Janey's one could see woods, and in summer he had often lain listening to the night-jar in them--that mysterious whirring, dull and restless, as if ghosts were spinning. That night all was windless silence, and there was no motion in the dark patch of window-view, except the flashing of the stars. Towards morning a delicious sense of cold stole over Nigel's sleep. Soft airs seemed to be baffing him, rippling round him, and there seemed to be water--water and wind. Then suddenly a bell rang in his brain. The dream collapsed, pulverised. He sprang up in bed, then scrambled out--then opened his eyes, to see himself still surrounded by his dream.