When Stephen came he bore Elizabeth off in his car, motoring her out to lunch at some quiet, lovely spot, waiting on her with tender, solicitous care, treating her, she thought, as though she were made of porcelain. It was so pleasant that she found herself counting the days to her wedding, almost longing to get away from home and her strenuous aunt.

Her bridesmaids worried her too, with their chatter and their giggling enthusiasm. Sarah was the only one of them she liked to have with her for any length of time; the others were all “nice” girls, approved of by Miss Arden.

She saw Cynthia Ruthven many times, and Cynthia was always civil. She knew that Cynthia did not like her. Anthony was different; you could not be afraid of him, any more than you could be afraid of Mrs. Ramsay, or of Stephen’s aunt who lost all her luggage on the way to town and could still smile. She did not care much for Stephen’s best man, John Caryll, who spoke in a drawl and quoted unknown verses, but she knew that he was clever, and supposed, sighing, that one must make allowances for him.

Lawrence, full of plans and importance, was in his element, and Miss Arden’s way. He criticised all Elizabeth’s clothes, to Miss Arden’s annoyance. Elizabeth knew that his taste was good, and listened to all that he had to say. Since she was soon to leave him his interference and his mannerisms hardly irritated her at all, but she wished he would not embrace her so often or so lingeringly.

But if Lawrence was outwardly concerned only with the trivialities attached to a wedding, inwardly a greater problem was worrying him. Parental duty, before so light a burden, became suddenly heavy and brought a frown to his brows. He felt himself responsible and so carried his responsibility to Miss Arden.

She knew that he had something on his mind by the way he fidgetted and allowed his pipe to go out. Twice he cleared his throat and seemed about to speak, yet did not. Only when Miss Arden folded up her work before going to bed did be manage to broach the question that bothered him.

“Er—Anne!” he said casually, scraping out the bowl of his pipe.

“Yes? What is it, Lawrence?”

He thought, and rightly, that it was going to be difficult. Very badly he wanted to abandon his attempt, but for once sense of duty triumphed.

“Um— Well. Er—there’s something I rather wanted to say to you. Ask you about, you know.”

“Yes?” she said again.