Sometimes he wondered if that midnight interview with her at the gate had ever really taken place—­or had it been midsummer madness, too sweet to exist even in memory?  Certainly, in the Esther he saw now there was nothing of the Esther of the stars.  She wore her mask well.  School had closed for the holidays and the summer gaieties of Coombe were in full swing.  Esther boated, picnicked, played croquet and tennis.  If there was any change in her at all it showed only in a kind of feverish gaiety which seemed to wear her strength.  She was certainly thinner.  Callandar ventured to suggest to Mary that she was looking far from well.  But Mary laughed at the idea.  She was very much annoyed with Esther.  The girl appeared to care nothing at all for the great event, refused to discuss it, declined absolutely to put herself out in the slightest for the entertainment of her mother’s prospective husband, seemed to avoid him in fact.  Moreover, she openly expressed her intention of leaving home immediately after the wedding.  Mrs. Coombe was afraid people would talk.

Of them all, Aunt Amy was the only one who understood.  How her poor, unsound brain arrived at the knowledge we cannot say.  Perhaps Esther was more careless in her presence, dropping her mask almost as if alone, or perhaps Aunt Amy’s strange psychic insight took no note of masks, or perhaps—­account for it as you will, Aunt Amy knew!  Esther and Dr. Callandar loved each other, and Mary stood between.  This latter fact was not at all surprising to Aunt Amy.  Was it not the special delight of the mysterious “They” to bring misery to all Aunt Amy loved, and was not Mary their accredited agent?  The affair of the ruby ring had proved her that, though no one else must guess it.  What would come of it all, Aunt Amy could not tell.  Wring her hands as she might she could not see into the future.  Often she would mutter a little as she went about her work, or stand still staring, straining into the dark.  No one noted any difference in her save Jane, for Jane was as yet happily free to observe.  The others, caught up in the whirl of their own destinies, saw nothing save the problems in their own anxious hearts.

“Esther,” said Jane one evening, “Aunt Amy is odder and odder and you don’t seem to care a bit.”

Esther, who was preparing to go to a garden party, turned back, a little startled.

“What do you mean, Jane?”

“I don’t know.  Can’t you see that she isn’t happy?”

“But she is better.  She never complains.  She almost never fancies things now.”

“She goes into corners and stares—­and she wrings her hands.”

“But she always did that, duck.”

Jane was not equal to a more lucid explanation.

“It’s not the same,” she insisted.  “I know it isn’t.  Esther, when you go away, will you take Aunt Amy and me?”

“How could I, dear?  Your home is here.  And you like Dr. Callandar, don’t you?”