shut out of the Misses Grimson's narrowing circle; and when she cast about in her own mind as to whom to ask "more of an age with Lucia," she found that she really did not know. A few names had occurred to her, and from time to time these had come to play lawn-tennis with the new box of balls in the exceedingly circumscribed court, and they again had asked the girl to parties at other houses. But among these acquaintances there was none that had ripened into anything approaching friendship. Lucia, for all her beauty and brilliance, had in this past year not got near intimacy with anyone. That Aunt Catherine knew; what she did not know was that this was entirely her niece's fault. Lucia found Brixham and the girls whom she came across stuffy. That might or might not be the case; what undoubtedly was the case was that the stuffy girls were not so dense as not to perceive her opinion of them. They survived it, and got on without her. No one could be more charming or amiable than Lucia when she thought it worth while. But she thought that nothing about Brixham was in the least worth while.
It is a popular fallacy, and one shared by Aunt Catherine, that charm, such as Lucia undeniably had, must make friends. It makes, beyond a doubt, many people willing to be friends with its fortunate possessor, but friendship is not a one-sided affair of this kind; it demands a contribution open-handed and unstinted, from both parties who go to the making of it. And among those who were willing to do their share at Brixham, Lucia was not one. She had nothing to give; there was nobody at any rate, as far as she perceived, who called forth her gift. In a word then, hitherto, she had shut it up, and turned the key on it. Brixham was dull, deadly and aged. But she could no more hide her charm than she could hide the sun, and while Aunt Catherine was still pondering over the bareness of the lawn and the colourlessness of what had been a blaze of colour the girl came into the garden.
"Dear Aunt Cathie," she said, "here I am, and you didn't hear the cab, which you were about to tell me, because there wasn't one. I walked from the station, and my luggage is coming by a van called C. P., whatever that means. Anyhow C. P. was very polite, so I said 'yes,' and it was only sixpence."
Aunt Catherine bent and kissed her somewhat magisterially.
"Glad to see you, dear," she said. "Are you glad to come back?"
Lucia's face did not fall; she still looked quite charming.
"Well, London was heavenly," she said, "so if that implies
