to make her voice very light as she found this admonition. 'And it would be such an inconvenient habit. Think it over, by yourself, first, Dick. And then, if you really want to go, we will go.'
Graham felt that she was saying: 'Steady, old boy; steady.'
When after lunch, he had gone out into the rain—and they did not speak again of the decision she thus left to him—Jill lay down on the sofa. She had a headache. She did not want to read. A wood fire on a wet spring day was a pleasant thing to look at and she lay and looked at it.
Suddenly the door opened and Amélie's head, in uncouth fashion, appeared round it while her moist red hand held it ajar.
'Mademoiselle Ludérac demande à voir Madame.'
Jill sat up. An electric shock seemed to pass through her; a mingling of reluctance and delight.
Amélie thoughtfully surveyed her. 'I shall tell her that Madame is occupied?'
'No, no—of course not.—Tell her to come up,' said Jill. She rose to her feet. This was the solution, then. She could not decide. Dick could not decide. Marthe Ludérac would decide for them whether they were to stay on in Buissac.—'But what nonsense,' said Jill to herself. 'I shall soon become as dotty as poor Dick.'
She stood looking towards the door which Amélie had left ajar, and in a moment it was pushed softly open and Marthe Ludérac stood before her. She wore
