Gladys had not sat patiently during this homily, but had moved uneasily about the room, looking first out of the window and then into the cream jug on the table, as if to find some help there. Everybody seemed to be against her and in league with Larkington, for she knew perfectly well to what all Mrs. Fallow-Deer had said pointed. Even Charlie,—his absence from Newport was in itself a sanction to her encouragement of Larkington.
A servant entered, bringing a great bunch of deep gold yellow roses for Miss Carleton, and a note in an already familiar hand. It was from Larkington, asking her if she would drive with him to the picnic. She stood still and silent for one awful moment, during which it seemed to her that the whole of her life hung in the balance. Should she go, or not? She sat down at the writing-desk, took up a quill, examined its point carefully, took out a sheet of paper, dated it, wrote, "Dear Mr. Larkington," and had not
