“ ’I know he lived in Scotland when he was a boy, because once when I said how cold it was, he said, ‘Ah! You ought to have been brought up in Scotland like I was.’ And I said, ‘Oh, were you?’ and he wouldn’t say any more. But I’d rather not be Scotch if I’ve got to know about frightful things like laws.”

“We’ll talk about anythin’ you like,” said Archie.

“I’d like to talk about cars. Have you got a car? And will you take me out in it? Charles took me out to-day, and I can very nearly drive.”

Archie cocked his eyebrows up and sang through his nose:

“Don’t you ever take your sweetie in an auto!

Don’t you ever take your girlie in a car!

When she gently murmurs Charlie,

You tread on the gas, and then-finale!

So don’t you take your sweetie in a car!”

Greta uttered a shriek of delight.

“What a lovely one! Do you know any more? Have you got a ukelele? Can you play it? Will you teach me? Oh, do say you will! I want to have one most frightfully, and Mrs. Beauchamp said they weren’t ladylike, and Madame wouldn’t let any one have one at school, though we simply pined.”

Margaret lost Archie’s answer. She put the old desk away in a corner and then sat down at the bureau and began to sort and tidy the pile of miscellaneous papers. Her thoughts frightened her. The picture of her mother standing in the sunlight kept coming back. It was astonishingly clear and distinct, astonishingly full of light and colour. Esther Langton’s black hair and brilliant bloom; the white dress; the red carnations; and the sunshine. The little lady in the lilac dress whose name was Lesbia. Her mother’s voice saying, “It was marriage by declaration.”

She tore up a couple of letters and dropped them in the wastepaper basket. Words and sentences kept forming in her mind-Our declaration of marriage. E.S.-It’s poor Papa’s writing-it really is-and his initials-He was brought up in Scotland-I thought you didn’t know where he was brought up-Of course you have to have a Scotch domicile-I am half Scotch because of the Brandons-My mother had a Scotch domicile-Our declaration of marriage. E.S.-It was marriage by declaration.

Margaret’s hand shook so much that the letter she was holding dropped from it. Why should she have thoughts like these? What had come over her? She tried to stop the thoughts, to fix her attention on the letters that had to be sorted. She tried to listen to Greta’s chatter.

Greta and Archie were sitting very close together, Greta gazing earnestly into his face.

“Charles has a moustache,” she said. “Why haven’t you got a moustache?”

“Poor old Charles looks better when a good bit of his face is covered up.”

“He doesn’t!”

“How do you know? I know, because we played together in infancy, I knew the lad when he had a chin not yet enriched by one appearing hair-misquotation from Shakespeare.”

Greta giggled.

“What a frightful lot of Shakespeare you know! I don’t know any except ‘Friends, Romans, Countrymen’; and I always get that wrong after the first three lines. I do think Shakespeare’s silly. Don’t you?”

“Poor old William!”

“Frightfully silly,” said Greta.

The words reached Margaret; but it was just as if Greta and Archie were a long way off-people in a play, talking about things which hadn’t anything to do with her. She thought strangely, passionately of her mother. It came over her how little she knew of her early life. What she remembered was Esther Pelham; and Esther Pelham never spoke of the time when she was Esther Langton or Esther Brandon. There seemed nothing strange about it. If Esther Pelham had never looked back into the past, it was because she was so abundantly satisfied with the present, a life full of enthusiasms, always offering fresh zest, colour, interest, new worlds to enjoy and conquer. Why should any woman with all this before her turn a remembering glance backwards? The one inexplicable thing in Esther Pelham’s life was poor little Freddy. That he should be the most devoted of her adorers was quite natural. But that she should have chosen him as a husband-He adored, and for seventeen years she had contentedly accepted his adoration. Margaret could never remember a break in this strangely happy relationship.

Presently, when Freddy came in, she looked at him with puzzled eyes. One got fond of Freddy. But there was nothing romantic about him; and Esther Pelham had breathed and diffused romance.

Freddy was cheerful and affectionate.

“Well, well, it’s very nice to see you-and Miss Greta. No, no-I must remember my privileges. It’s Greta, isn’t it? And you’re remembering to call me Freddy, I hope. What? Nonsense! You must, or I shall think I’m getting old-and that won’t do-will it? Now, there’s Moreley Milton- Margaret, you remember Morley Milton-five years older than me and getting fat. Well, no one can say I’m getting fat. Well, old Morley’s just gone and got engaged to an heiress-done uncommon well for himself too, I heard-a Miss Gray-or is it May, or Way? I’ve got a shocking head for names. Why, only yesterday I met Jack Crosbie, and said to him ‘How’s Polly?’ and I give you my word he looked glum. And then I remembered Polly jilted him, and I took a plunge and said, ‘No-of course-of course-I mean Sylvia-how’s dear little Sylvia?’ And he looked-oh, dreadfully annoyed, and walked away, and the next man I met told me he and Sylvia don’t speak. But there, I hope he won’t bear malice, for I wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings for the world-now would I?”

Freddy flowed happily on. He paid Greta flowery compliments, and told endless pointless stories about people whom the others had never heard of, and in whom no one could possibly have taken any interest. Margaret had not seen him so like himself since her mother’s death. When he got up to go, she drew him on one side and asked the question which she had been waiting to ask.

“Freddy, did Mother ever have a friend called Lesbia?”

Freddy wrinkled his brow.

“She’d such a lot of friends. I don’t think I ever knew anyone who had so many friends as Esther did.”

“Yes, she had. But I remember someone called Lesbia when I was a little girl.”

“What about her?”

“Nothing. I just wondered who she was.”

“Lesbia?” said Freddy. “Lesbia? You’re sure it was Lesbia, and not Sylvia?”

“Quite sure.”

“Because there was Sylvia Flowerdew who married Nigel Adair. No-no, that’s wrong, because Nigel married Kitty Lennox, so it must have been Ian who married Sylvia. Only I seem to remember Ian being married to a dark girl with a bit of cast in her eye-and of course some people admired it, but I don’t myself, and Sylvia-”

“It wasn’t Sylvia-it was Lesbia.”

Freddy brightened.

“It wasn’t Lesbia Boyne?”

“I don’t know. Who was Lesbia Boyne?”

“She was Esther’s great friend about the time we married. But I think she went out to America -yes, I think so.”

“I never heard of her.”

“She used to write-yes, yes, it all comes back-she used to write. And then she stopped writing-these things drop off, you know. Now there was Janet Gordon about the same time, always writing to Esther. No, not Janet-Joan- Jean-Jane-hanged if I can remember the girl’s name! But I’ll swear it began with a J. No-Elspeth-that’s it-Elspeth Gordon! Or was it Campbell? Bless my soul. I can’t be sure. But she used to write a dozen times a week, and now I can’t even remember her name.”

Archie was saying good-night to Greta. He whispered something, and Greta blushed and dimpled. Freddy turned on them, shaking his finger.

“Don’t you believe a word he says. I don’t know what he’s saying, but don’t you believe it. Young men are all alike. Don’t forget you’re all dining with me tomorrow.”

Archie was quite unabashed.

“Am I dinin’ too?”

“Didn’t I ask you? D’you want to come? The more, the merrier-what? Half past seven, and don’t be late. Good-night, everybody. Good-night Greta.” He pressed Greta’s hand and held it for a moment. “Aren’t you going to say ‘Good-night, Freddy’?”