Even Rowley... Rowley and his friend Johnnie Vavasour had started in partnership on the farm. Their capital was small, but they had been full of hope and energy. And Gordon Cloade had approved. To her he had said more.

"You can't get anywhere in farming without capital. But the first thing to find out is whether these boys have really got the will and the energy to make a go of it. If I set them up now, I wouldn't know that - maybe for years. If they've got the right stuff in them, if I'm satisfied that their side of it is all right, well then, Lynn, you needn't worry. I'll finance them on the proper scale. So don't think badly of your prospects, my girl. You're just the wife Rowley needs. But keep what I've told you under your hat."

Well, she had done that, but Rowley himself had sensed his uncle's benevolent interest. It was up to him to prove to the old boy that Rowley and Johnnie were a good investment for money.

Yes, they had all depended on Gordon Cloade. Not that any of the family had been spongers or idlers. Jeremy Cloade was senior partner in a firm of solicitors, Lionel Cloade was in practice as a doctor.

But behind the workaday life was the comforting assurance of money in the background. There was never any need to stint or to save. The future was assured. Gordon Cloade, a childless widower, would see to that. He had told them all, more than once, that that was so.

His widowed sister, Adela Marchmont, had stayed on at the White House when she might, perhaps, have moved into a smaller, more labour-saving house. Lynn went to first-class schools. If the war had not come, she would have been able to take any kind of expensive training she had pleased. Cheques from Uncle Gordon flowed in with comfortable regularity to provide little luxuries.

Everything had been so settled, so secure.

And then had come Gordon Cloade's wholly unexpected marriage.

"Of course, darling," Adela went on, "we were all flabbergasted. If there was one thing that seemed quite certain, it was that Gordon would never marry again. It wasn't, you see, as though he hadn't got plenty of family ties."

Yes, thought Lynn, plenty of family. Sometimes, possibly, rather too much family?

"He was so kind always," went on Mrs Marchmont. "Though perhaps just a weeny bit tyrannical on occasions. He never liked the habit of dining off a polished table. Always insisted on my sticking to the old- fashioned tablecloths. In fact, he sent me the most beautiful Venetian lace ones when he was in Italy."

"It certainly paid to fall in with his wishes," said Lynn dryly. She added with some curiosity, "How did he meet this - second wife? You never told me in your letters."

"Oh, my dear, on some boat or plane or other. Coming from South America to New York, I believe. After all those years! And after all those secretaries and typists and housekeepers and everything."