There remained always that—­work, the great palliative, a narcotic dulling the pain which, without it, would be almost beyond human endurance.

* * * * * *

“Everything’s just about as bad as it could be!”

Kitty’s voice was troubled and the eyes that sought Lord St. John’s lacked all their customary vivacity.  The tall old man, pacing the quadrangle beside her in the warmth of the afternoon sunshine, made no comment for a moment.  Then he said slowly: 

“Yes, it’s pretty bad.  I’m sorry Mallory had to leave this morning.”

“Oh, well,” murmured Kitty vaguely, “a well-known writer like that often has to dash off to town in the middle of a holiday.  Things crop up, you know”—­still more vaguely.

St. John paused in the middle of his pacing and, putting his hand under Kitty’s chin, tilted her face upward, scrutinising it with a kindly, quizzical gaze.

“Lookers-on see most of the game, my dear,” he observed, “I’ve no doubts about the ‘business’ which called Mallory away.”

“You’ve guessed, then?”

“I was there when we first thought Nan might be in danger last night—­and I saw his face.  Then I was sure.  I’d only suspected before.”

“I knew,” said Kitty simply.  “He told me in London.  At first he didn’t intend coming down to Mallow at all.”

“Better, perhaps, if he’d kept to his intention,” muttered St. John abstractedly.  He was thinking deeply, his fine brows drawn together.

“You see, he—­some of us thought Maryon had come back meaning to fix up things with Nan.  So Peter kept out of the way.  He thinks only of her—­her happiness.”

“His own is out of the question, poor devil!”

Kitty nodded.

“And the worst of it is,” she went on, “I can’t feel quite sure that Nan will be really happy with Roger.  They’re the last two people in the world to get on well together.”

Lord St. John looked out across the sea, his shoulders a little stooped, his hands clasped behind his back.  No one regretted Nan’s precipitate engagement more than he, but he recognised that little good could be accomplished by interference.  Moreover, to his scrupulous, old-world sense of honour, a promise, once given, was not to be broken at will.

“I’m afraid, my dear,” he said at last, turning back to Kitty, “I’m afraid we’ve reached a cul-de-sac.”

His tones were despondent, and Kitty’s spirits sank a degree lower.  She looked at him bleakly, and he returned her glance with one equally bleak.  Then, into this dejected council of two—­cheerful, decided, and aboundingly energetic swept Aunt Eliza.

“Good afternoon, my dear,” she said, making a peck at Kitty’s cheek.  “That flunkey, idling his life away on the hall mat, said I should find you here, so I saved him from overwork by showing myself in.  How are you, St. John?  You’re looking a bit peaky this afternoon, aren’t you?”