Aunt Philippa continued her knitting severely in silence.  They were sitting on the terrace awaiting the luncheon-hour.  Across the garden came Noel’s shrill whistle, and instinctively, before she remembered her aunt’s presence, Chris answered it.  The boy appeared at the farther end of the long lawn, and came racing towards them.

“Just seen the postman, Chris. Here’s a letter for you—­such a horrible fist, Sandacre post-mark, and sealed.  Wonder who it’s from?”

He leaned against her chair to recover his breath and regarded the envelope he held with frank interest.

Chris stretched up her hand for it.  “I expect it’s from Mrs. Pouncefort.”

“Mrs. Pouncefort doesn’t write like that!” protested Noel.  “No woman could.”

“May I have it?” said Chris.

He put it into her hand, but he still leaned against her chair.  “Be quick and open it, I say!  It looks important.”

“I don’t suppose it is,” said Chris; but she opened it notwithstanding with some curiosity.

Aunt Philippa had arrived only the night before, but she was already very tired of her society, and any diversion was welcome.

“You don’t mind?” she murmured to her aunt.

Her eyes were already upon the first page as she spoke.  She frowned over the unfamiliar handwriting.

Noel studied it also over her shoulder.  “What on earth—­” he began.

She looked up suddenly, and crumpled the paper in her hand.  “Noel, go away!  How dare you!”

He stared at her in amazement.  A sharp word from Chris was most unusual.  Aunt Philippa looked up also.

“My dear girl, it isn’t private, is it?” said Noel.

Chris was scarlet.  She seemed to breathe with difficulty.  “Of course it’s private!  All my letters are private!”

“But it comes from the Pounceforts,” objected Noel.  “I saw ’Sandacre Court’ at the top of the page.”

Chris sprang to her feet impetuously with blazing eyes.  “And what if it does?  You had no right to look over me.  It was a hateful thing to do.  What if it does come from Mrs. Pouncefort?  Is it mine any the less for that?”

“Oh, don’t get huffy!” remonstrated Noel.  “Look at you!  Anyone would think you had got the palsy.  But you needn’t pretend it’s from Mrs. Pouncefort, because I know better.”

“It—­it is from Mrs. Pouncefort!” declared Chris.

“Which is a lie,” rejoined Noel, with the utmost calmness.  “I know you, my dear girl, I know you.  You’ve told ’em before.”

“Noel!” Aunt Philippa interposed her voice with extreme dignity.  “You forget yourself.  If you cannot speak with ordinary courtesy, be good enough to leave us.”

Noel heeded the remonstrance no more than if it had been the buzzing of a fly.  Chris’s spark of temper had kindled his.

“Oh, you can swear it’s the truth till all’s blue,” he declared, raising his voice recklessly.  “But that doesn’t make it so.  In fact, it only makes the contrary all the more likely.  Besides, you know you do lie, Chris, so you needn’t deny it.”