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indeed, Fenella’s next question proved was the case.
    “You mean—because of Anthony?” she asked, intent on twisting a long piece of grass she had picked round her forefinger. Then, as there was no reply, she threw the grass away and faced Mrs. Trevose directly. “Rosemary was the girl who jilted Anthony, wasn’t she?”
    “Miss Prosser again?” Mrs. Trevose asked resignedly, and when Fenella nodded: “That woman must be related to Miss Bates. Her tongue is loose at both ends!”
    “I think it is,” Fenella agreed. “All the same, when I thought it over, I wondered that I'd never realised before that of course it must have been her! She was so lovely and such fun!”
    “She was also completely heartless,” Mrs. Trevose said coldly. “And since you know so much, you may as well know the whole story. She and Anthony were engaged. They were going to be married in two months’ time. She went to town to do some trousseau shopping with her mother and was introduced to this man—Geoffrey Maidment. She made some excuse to stay on up in town —something about staying with an old school friend— after her mother returned here. Ten days later they were married, and the first that anyone, including Anthony, knew about it, was after the event. She hadn’t the courage to face up to him or her parents. And now, do you wonder that I don’t want—” she bit her lip, distressed at recalling the old story and vexed, perhaps at her own indiscretion.
    Fenella was silent. How could anyone who was engaged to Anthony ever look twice at any other man, let alone marry him? But there was a more pressing question.
    “Aunt Gina, does Anthony know about the Lancings coming back—or about Rosemary’s husband?”
    Mrs. Trevose hesitated.
    “About Rosemary’s husband, yes. About them all coming back to Poldean House—I'm honestly not sure, Fenella. I’ve been wondering about it ever since breakfast—” She shook her head. “At one moment, remembering what he said, I feel sure that he doesn’t. And then, looking at things from a different angle, I feel equally sure that he does. It all depends on—” and once again she stopped short.
    “On whether Anthony has got over being in love with Rosemary or not,” Fenella was astonished to hear herself say quite composedly. “Yes, I’ve been thinking that.”
    She stood up, her young shoulders squared, her chin well up. “Well, whichever it is, the Lancings must be asked to the garden party. And that, of course, includes Rosemary.”
    Mrs. Trevose nodded. She knew that the child was right, that to do anything else would only make a difficult situation more difficult, possibly even dangerous. But she felt resentful that the making of such a decision should have been left to Fenella. Anthony ought to have made his position absolutely clear, if not to Fenella, then to herself.
    “But of course, he may not know,” Fenella remarked thoughtfully, her line of thought having so closely followed that of Mrs. Trevose’s that the lady gave a little start of surprise. “In which case," Fenella went on, "he’s got to be told as quickly as possible. And by us. But of course, in a way that doesn’t suggest we think he may know already. That might embarrass him.”
    She frowned a little as she considered the matter, and this time Mrs. Trevose was conscious of a sense of impatience that was directed against Fenella as well as Anthony. Why would the child always put Anthony’s feelings before her own? Didn’t she know that while a man may find the doormat type of girl useful, he rarely falls in love with her? But, surprisingly, Fenella went on slowly:
    “Really, it could be embarrassing for all of us. So what I suggest, Aunt Gina, is that at dinner time, I simply pass on the news, say what fun it will be to have them back at Fairhaven, and that I do hope they’ll be returning in time for the party! ” She stopped a little breathlessly. “What do you think?”
    “An excellent