The two women were excessively fond of each other, thought neither cared to show it. Temperamentally, however, they were so antagonistic that frequent quarrels were inevitable. Whenever this happened, the aunt ordinarily expressed herself in vigorous language, while Isbel, on the other hand, would become sullen and vindictive, saying little, but requiring time to be appeased.

As soon as dinner was concluded, the trio retired to Mrs. Moor's private apartment on the first floor. The waiter brought up coffee and Chartreuse. The room was handsomely appointed, a distinctive note being lent to it by the bowls of pale chrysanthemums with which it was profusely and artistically decorated-Isbel's labour of love. The evening was chilly, and a small fire was burning in the grate. They brought their chairs forward, so as to form a semi-circle round the hearth, Isbel being in the middle. She stretched a languid hand up, and took two cigarettes from an open box on the mantelshelf, passing one to Marshall and keeping one herself; Mrs. Moor very rarely smoked.

For some twenty minutes they talked business. Marshall told them exactly what he had accomplished on the other side, and what still remained to be done.

"Anyhow," said Mrs. Moor, "it seems that the main difficulties have been got over, and the money's quite safe for Isbel?"

"Oh, quite. She may have to wait some months before she can touch it-that's the only thing."

Isbel took little sips of coffee, and looked reflectively into the fire.

"No doubt you'll find a use for it, Isbel, when it does come."

"Oh, it's more sentimental, aunt. Naturally, I don't want to go to Marshall with empty hands."

The others protested simultaneously.

"You needn't cry out," said the girl calmly. "I know it's done very day, but that's no reason why I should be content to follow suit. After all, why should a married woman be a parasite? It makes her out to be a kind of property. And that's not the worst…"

"Very well, child. You've got the money-don't make a fuss."

"Isbel's right, mind you," said Marshall. "There's a decent amount of cold horse-sense about what she says. A girl wants to feel independent. I'm not gifted with a great deal of imagination, but I can see it must be pretty rotten to have to keep on good terms with a man-even when she's not feeling like it-simply and solely for the sake of his cash."

"I wasn't thinking so much of my attitude as yours," replied Isbel.

"Now, that is rather uncalled for. It isn't at all likely that a question of private means is going to affect my behaviour. What made you come out with that?"

"Oh, I don't mean it in your sense," said Isbel. "I don't mean anything brutal or tyrannical, of course. I simply say that your whole attitude toward me would be unconsciously modified, and you couldn't help it. Being a man, the mere knowledge that you held the purse would be bound to make you kinder and more chivalrous toward me. That would be a lifelong humiliation. I should never be able to feel quite sure whether you were being kind to me or to my poverty."

"Rot!" exclaimed Marshall. "That sort of thing doesn't exist in married life."

"I couldn't bear to ask for love and be fed with sympathy." Her voice was cold, quiet, and perfectly unembarrassed.

"You girls are all the same," said Mrs. Moor pettishly. "You have that word 'love' on the brain. Most married women are very thankful to have an occasional dish of sympathy set before them, I can assure you. We all know what love without sympathy is."

"What?"

"Pure, brutal egotism, my dear. If that's what your heart is crying for, so much the worse for you."

"Perhaps that's what I want, all the same. Every woman has a savage streak in her, they say. I should probably always sell myself to the highest bidder-in love…You'd better look out, Marshall."

"Well, it's a lucky thing we both know you as well as we do," said her aunt, dryly.

"The question is, do you know me?" Isbel fingered the lace of her corsage.

"The question is, what is there to know? Girls may be exceedingly mysterious to young me, but they're not in the least mysterious to old women, my dear. You've over-indulged in Russian literature lately."

Her niece laughed, as if unwillingly. "If all girls are so hopelessly alike, what becomes of ancestral traits?

"You don't claim more ancestors than other people, I hope? What is this new pose of inscrutability, child?"

Marshall thought it high time to interrupt the duel, which threatened to develop into something unpleasant.

"To change the subject," he said, rather hastily, "have you got fixed for a house yet, Mrs. Moor?"

"No, I haven't. Why?"

"Would Sussex suit you?"

Isbel anticipated her aunt's reply, turning to him with a friendly smile, as if anxious to counteract the impression caused by her free speaking. "Have you heard of something? Whereabouts in Sussex?"

"Near Steyning."

"You get there from Worthing, don't you?"

"You get there from anywhere, in a car. It's not far from Brighton."

"Tell us all about it. What kind of a house is it?"

"Surely I may speak, Isbel!" said her aunt irritably. "Is it a large property, Marshall? How did you come to hear of it?"

"It's an Elizabethan manor. Two hundred acres of ground go with it, mostly timber. The hall goes back to the thirteenth century. I met the owner coming across."

"And the price?"

"He declined to say off-hand. As a matter of fact, he's not frightfully keen on selling at all. His wife's just died in San Francisco, so I snatched the opportunity and asked him what his plans were about going back. He hasn't decided yet, but I've got a sort of idea that a prompt bid might do the trick, if it at all appeals to you."

"Poor fellow! At least, I hope so…Young or old?"

"He told me his age-fifty-eight. He was in the Birmingham brass trade. His name's Judge. You don't know him by any chance?"

"Do we, Isbel?"

"No."

"He is quite a decent chap. He and his wife have lived at Runhill Court for eight years, so it sounds all right."

"Is that the name of the house?"

"Yes. Historical-supposed to be derived from the old Saxon 'rune-hill,' so he says. The runes were engraved letters, intended to keep off the trolls and blendings. I don't suppose that interests you greatly; what's more to the point is that the place is thoroughly up to date, he tells me. He's spent no end on modern improvements-electric lighting, and so forth…Well now, do you feel disposed to take it up?"

Mrs. Moor wriggled in her chair, which was a sign of indecision. Isbel emitted clouds of cigarette-smoke, in the manner of women.

"An Elizabethan manor," she remarked reflectively. "Sounds thrilling. Is there a family ghost?"

"Do you want one?"

"In any case, you wouldn't have to live there long, child." Her aunt's tone was sharp. "That is, unless you've been alerting your programme, you two, behind my back?"

"We're not conspirators, thanks. It's still to be April."

"Then pray leave me to make my own arrangements. When could I go over to the house, Marshall?"

"Anytime, I fancy. Would you care to have Judge's address in town?"

"Please."

He scribbled it on a scrap of paper, and passed it over.

Isbel eyed him thoughtfully. "Aren't you coming with us, Marshall?"

"Really, I wasn't thinking of doing so. Of course, of you'd like me to…"

"We should," said Mrs. Moor. "What day would suit you best?"

"There you have me." He hesitated…"Well, as we're all here together, what's wrong with to-morrow morning? I could run you over in the car. The country's looking magnificent."

Mrs. Moor consulted the paper in her hand. "But Mr. Judge is in town, you say? How can we get an order to view between now and to-morrow morning?"