and greater—such as the Grosmonts of Trecastel. But old Mr. Grosmont had two sons, and father only had three daughters. I was a sort of ugly duckling, Eddie; they never really liked me. And I was never happy there.” “I think I must be like you, darling,” said Edwin. “I had a rotten time at St. Luke’s at first. Even now I don’t quite seem to be . . . I don’t know . . . ordinary.” She smiled and kissed him. “My father was a dear,” she said, “but mother really hated me. Your Aunt Carrie was much cleverer and better-looking than me, and so they always made a fuss of her and left me to myself. She had all the advantages. You see, I suppose they thought she was worth it. She was a beautiful, selfish creature, with the most lovely hair.” “I’m sure it wasn’t lovelier than yours, darling,” said Edwin. “Then she went and threw herself away, as mother called it, on a man she met at a hunt ball in Hereford. And she died, poor thing, with her first baby. It was an awful blow to mother. It made her more horrid to me than ever. I suppose she found me such a poor substitute. If it had been me it wouldn’t have mattered. I went to keep house for your great-uncle in North Bromwich; and there I met your father. I have never been really happy. You see, nobody had ever taken any notice of me—before that. Then mother began to put all the hopes that had been disappointed in Carrie on Aunt Laura. Nothing was too good for her. They spoiled her, and spoiled her. It was worse when father died and mother was left to do what she liked with the money. And when your Aunt Laura came here and met Mr. Fellows and married him, your grandmother blamed me. I couldn’t help it . . . and in any case Mr. Fellows is an awfully nice, quiet man. I did all I could for her, too, getting her house ready and that sort of thing, and now she’s so dreadfully difficult. I suppose she’s really annoyed to think that she hasn’t done better for herself with all her advantages of education, and just lets it off on me. It’s dreadfully awkward, Eddie. I think she’s even jealous that their house isn’t as big as ours. I simply daren’t tell your father the sort of things she’s said. If he knew one of them he’d never forgive her. He’s like that about anything that affects me.” “I should be, too,” said Edwin. “Would you?” she smiled. “Yes. . . . You’ve made me hate Aunt Laura already.” “You mustn’t feel like that, Eddie. She’s young, and she’s been spoilt. It isn’t all her fault, probably.” “If it were any one but you I wouldn’t mind. But you’re so wonderful.” He loved to look into her eyes when she loved him. II