very well for you two to be funny,” Nora went on, revisiting the chocolate box, “but you've heard about the Seaforths coming, haven't you? I adore kilts, and so does Helen; don't you, Helen?”
“Every woman does,” Helen admitted, smiling. “I suppose the child really can keep the hat, can't she?” she added, turning to the Commandant.
“Officially the matter is outside my cognizance,” he declared. “I shall have nothing to say.”
The two young men exchanged glances.
“A hat,” Somerfield ruminated, “especially a Homburg hat, is scarcely an appurtenance of warfare.”
His brother officer stood for a moment looking gravely at the object in question. Then he winked at Somerfield and sighed.
“I shall take the whole responsibility,” he decided magnanimously, “of saying nothing about the matter. We can't afford to quarrel with Miss Nora, can we, Somerfield?”
“Not on your life,” that young man agreed.
“Sensible boys!” Nora pronounced graciously.
“Thank you very much, Captain Griffiths, for not encouraging them in their folly. You can take me as far as the post-office when you go, Arthur,” she continued, turning to the fortunate possessor of the side-car, “and we'll have some golf to-morrow afternoon, if you like.”
“Won't Mr. Somerfield have some tea?” Helen invited.
“Thank you very much, Miss Fairclough,” the man replied; “we had tea some time ago at Watson's, where I found Miss Nora.”
Nora suddenly held up her finger. “Isn't that the car?” she asked. “Why, it must be mummy, here already. Yes, I can hear her voice!”
Griffiths, who had moved eagerly towards the window, looked back.
“It is Lady Cranston,” he announced solemnly.
CHAPTER II
The woman who paused for a moment upon the threshold of the library, looking in upon the little company, was undeniably beautiful. She had masses of red-gold hair, a little disordered by her long railway journey, deep-set hazel eyes, a delicate, almost porcelain-like complexion, and a sensitive, delightfully shaped mouth. Her figure was small and dainty, and just at that moment she had an appearance of helplessness which was almost childlike. Nora, after a vigorous embrace, led her stepmother towards a chair.
“Come and sit by the fire, Mummy,” she begged. “You look tired and cold.”
Philippa exchanged a general salutation with her guests. She was still wearing her travelling coat, and her air of fatigue was unmistakable. Griffiths, who had not taken his eyes off her since her entrance, wheeled an easy-chair towards the hearth-rug, into which she sank with a murmured word of thanks.
“You'll have some tea, won't you, dear?” Helen enquired.
Philippa shook her head. Her eyes met her friend's for a moment—it was only a very brief glance, but the tragedy of some mutual sorrow seemed curiously revealed in that unspoken question and answer. The two young subalterns prepared to take their leave. Nora, kneeling down, stroked her stepmother's hand.
“No news at all, then?” Helen faltered.
“None,” was the weary reply.
“Any amount of news here, Mummy,” Nora intervened cheerfully, “and heaps of excitement. We had a Zeppelin over Dutchman's Common last night, and she lost her observation car. Mr. Somerfield took me up there this afternoon, and I found a German hat. No one else got a thing, and, would you believe it, those children over there tried to take it away from me.”
Her stepmother smiled faintly.
“I expect you are keeping the hat, dear,” she observed.
“I should say so!” Nora assented.
Philippa held out her hand to the two young men who had been waiting to take their leave.
“You must come and dine one night this week, both of you,” she said. “My husband will be home by the later train this evening, and I'm sure he will be glad to have you.”
“Very kind of you, Lady Cranston, we shall be delighted,” Harrison declared.
“Rather!” his companion echoed.
Nora led them away, and Helen, with a word of excuse, followed them. Griffiths, who had also risen to his feet, came a little nearer to Philippa's chair.
“And you, too, of course, Captain Griffiths,” she said, smiling pleasantly up at him. “Must you hurry away?”
“I will stay, if I may, until Miss Fairclough returns,” he answered, resuming his seat.
“Do!” Philippa begged him. “I have had such a miserable time in town. You can't think how restful it is to be back here.”
“I am afraid,” he observed, “that your journey has not been successful.”
Philippa shook her head.
“It has been completely unsuccessful,” she sighed. “I have not been able to hear a word about my brother. I am so sorry for poor Helen, too. They were only engaged, you know, a few days before he left for the front this last time.”
Captain Griffiths nodded sympathetically.
“I never met Major Felstead,” he remarked, “but every one who has seems to like him very much. He was doing so well, too, up to that last unfortunate affair, wasn't he?”
“Dick is a dear,” Philippa declared. “I never knew any one with so many friends. He would have been commanding his battalion now, if only he were free. His colonel wrote and told me so himself.”
“I wish there were something I could do,” Griffiths murmured, a little awkwardly. “It hurts me, Lady Cranston, to see you so upset.”
She looked at him for a moment in faint surprise.
“Nobody can do anything,” she bemoaned. “That is the unfortunate part of it all.”
He rose to his feet and was immediately conscious, as he always was when he stood up, that there was a foot or two of his figure which he had no idea what to do with.
“You wouldn't feel like a ride to-morrow morning, Lady Cranston?” he asked, with a wistfulness which seemed somehow stifled in his rather unpleasant voice. She shook her head.
“Perhaps one morning later,” she replied, a little vaguely. “I haven't any heart for anything just now.”
He took a sombre but agitated leave of his hostess, and
