She turned and walked away, and Olivia saw her lean and unexpressive shoulders rise as though a sob had shaken her. CHAPTER XXVI OF the death of Myra Stebbings’s husband and of her second appearance in Pendish during his sojourn in the West Country, Triona knew nothing. Again she had forbidden her sister-in-law to give him any information as to her doings. Again she disclaimed interest in the young man. Nor was he aware, a week after the funeral, that Myra, who had stood by the graveside in the pouring rain, and had insisted on jogging back to Pendish wet through, in the undertaker’s brougham, lay dangerously ill in the upstairs bedroom of the little Georgian house. The increasing business of the Quantock Garage diverted his energies from polite tramps into Pendish to enquire into Mrs. Pettiland’s state of health. Also, he was growing morose, his soul feeding on itself, and beginning to develop an unwholesome misanthropy. Like Hamlet, man didn’t delight him; no, nor woman neither. When not working in the garage or driving the old touring-car, he retired to brood in his loft and eschewed the company of his kind. “You’re overdoing it,” said Radnor, a kindly person. “Why not go away on a holiday and have a change?” “Only one change would do me any good,” he replied gloomily, “and that would be to get out of this particularly vile universe.” Radnor looked round his well ordered, bustling establishment and smiled. “It isn’t as bad as all that.” Triona shrugged his shoulders and spanner in hand turned to the car he was doctoring, without a reply. A few days afterwards Radnor said: “We’re going to be married in August, and I don’t mind saying it’s mostly thanks to you.” “I’m glad to hear it,” said Triona. “I’ll stick it out till then.” “And then?” “I’ll have the change you’ve been talking of.” Radnor laughed. “You’ll let me have a bit of a honeymoon first, won’t you?” “Oh, yes,” replied Triona. “You can have your honeymoon.” The weakening incentive to life would last till September. He would make it last. It was now the beginning of June. Three months or so more wouldn’t matter. To carry on a meaningless existence further would be absurd. Indeed, it would be immoral. Of that, for some time past he had convinced himself. England ran motor-mad that summer. It awoke to find war restrictions removed, roads free and petrol to be had for the buying. In its eagerness to race through a beloved land closed up for years and view or review historic spots of loveliness, and otherwise to indulge in its national vagabond humour it cared little for the price of petrol. The hiring garages, in anything like tourist centres, found their resources strained. Radnor bought another car, and still had more orders than he could execute. He drove one car himself. * * * * *