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“Well, it's only that it’s rather a coincidence—” he said lamely.

“Coincidences do happen—unfortunately,” Lucy told him shortly. “And one just has to put up with them. However, since you appear to think it may not, after all, be a coincidence that I'm travelling by the same plane as you are, I’d better tell you that I’m going home because my father is ill.”

“Oh!” Dick, subdued by her bluntness, took several moments to realise that her announcement called for some comment. ‘Tm sorry about that, Lucy.”

“Thank you.” Lucy began to look at one of her magazines, and Dick took the hint that further conversation would not be welcome.

Half an hour must have passed, and then he said suddenly:

“I’ve left Gwenda.”

The magazine dropped to Lucy's lap.

“You've
what?”
she demanded incredulously.

“Left Gwenda,” he repeated. “Oh, I know, we've hardly been married any time, but I told you before how difficult she was—and things have got worse since you came to lunch that day on
La Mouette.”

“Since I appear to be involved in it, I suppose you'd better tell me what you mean,” Lucy said resignedly. “Although I'd much rather not hear.”

“Well, it was Gwenda who put the old man up to including you in the invitation,” Dick explained. “I didn't know anything about it—”

“I realised that at the time,” Lucy told him. “Well?”

“Well, the old man spotted that something was wrong, and he went for Gwenda until she owned up. There was a dickens of a row—he wouldn’t let us come to lunch at the villa, and he told Gwenda just what he thought of her. She was furious—blamed me for everything. She said some things that—well, I lost my temper, too. A thoroughly edifying scene.” He laughed mirthlessly. “This was after the old man had gone ashore to lunch with you, but it kept on at intervals ever since. Last night, I suddenly felt I couldn’t stand it any more. So—” he shrugged his shoulders. “Here I am!”

Despite the repugnance which Lucy felt at having heard this squalid story, there was one point about it which aroused her curiosity.

“But I thought you said that she—that you had very little money to spend. How did you manage to pay your fare — and what are you going to live on?”

Dick chuckled triumphantly.

“Ah, that’s something Gwenda didn’t reckon on! Of course, when we started rowing, she clamped down tighter than ever on cash, but I’d got a bit in reserve that she didn’t know about, and last night I went to the Casino, and struck lucky! That’s what made me decide to leave her. Actually, I didn’t go back to the yacht last night, and this morning I sent her a note by one of the fishermen saying that this was it, goodbye I”

“I see,” Lucy said slowly.

“Do you blame me?” Dick asked hotly. “There are some things a chap can’t swallow, and Gwenda’s attitude of having bought me body and soul is one of them.”

Lucy did not reply, and after a minute, Dick went on:

“Oh, I know, I asked for it! And for once, I’ll tell you the absolute truth, Lucy. I told myself that I was in love with Gwenda—but I doubt if I’d have found it such an easy job if it hadn’t been for her money. Lord, what a fool I was! Having to beg for every penny-”

“Dick, be quiet a minute, I want to think,” Lucy told him authoritatively.

Dick subsided in his seat, his face gloomy. For the life of him he couldn’t see that any thinking Lucy might do was going to help.

“Yes, I think I’ve got it sorted out now,” Lucy said at length. “Until you got married you’d never been dependent on anyone else for money. You’d earned what you had and so you had the right to do what you liked with it.”

“Well, of course,” Dick agreed. “That’s what I've been saying.”

“Yes, but there’s more to it than that,” Lucy insisted. “Don’t you see, Dick, if having a good time was all that mattered to you, you wouldn’t mind having to eat humble pie. You’d think it was worth it, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose so,” he admitted doubtfully. “But where does that get me?”

“Oh, don’t be so dull!” Lucy said impatiently. “I’m trying to help you—though goodness knows why! Listen, Dick, and try to understand what I’m driving at. People like us aren’t brought up to do nothing but enjoy themselves. It may be fun for a time, but not for always. I think, really and truly, you’re bored with doing nothing because all your life you’ve had to work and you’re missing it.”

“Maybe,” Dick did not sound enthusiastic. “But does it really make sense that I should work when—” he checked himself, seeing her expression of distaste. “Oh, I know, you don’t think it’s at all nice for a man to live on his wife’s money. All the same.—”

“But, Dick,” Lucy interrupted earnestly, “you’re talking as if one only works for the sake of money—”

“Well, that’s what most people work for, isn’t it? You’ve got to live so you have to work.”

“Yes, of course that’s true,” Lucy answered impatiently. “But there can be a lot more to it than that—if you really enjoy the work you do. That’s why quite a lot of really rich people keep on working when they don’t need to. I should say that Mr. Kelsall is one of them.”

“Clever girl,” Dick commented, considerably surprised at Lucy’s shrewdness. “You’re right. He gets a real kick out of pitting his brains against his rivals.”

“Then why shouldn’t you?” Lucy asked eagerly. “You’ve got brains, Dick, or you wouldn’t have got on as you did.”

“That may be true,” Dick looked slightly more cheerful. “All the same, just how do I get a job now? I can’t exactly ask my father-in-law for references, can I?”

“No, but you can tell him you’re tired of doing nothing—and ask for your job back,” Lucy retorted. “And I think that would appeal to him so much that you’d get it!”

“By jove, you’ve got something there!” Dick exclaimed, sitting erect. “Judging by one or two cracks he’d made about sons-in-law who—well, never mind that.” He pondered for a moment. “There’s more to this than that, you know. If I went after any old job, Gwenda would have something to say about it, but if her father agrees to taking me back, she can’t object because she’s dependent on him for a hefty allowance.” He chuckled softly. “And I’ll have some cash of my own—which means I’ll also have some independence. That will shake my dear wife rigid!”

Lucy did not reply. She thought it was disgusting of Dick to speak like this of his wife, even though Gwenda had contributed her share to the trouble between them, but what was the good of saying so? She thought perhaps the suggestion she had made might help matters, but really and truly it was for Dick and Gwenda to solve their own problems.

Perhaps Dick had realised that for, deep in thought, he showed no further wish to discuss his affairs with her. She thought that he had even forgotten she was there and was thankful to be neglected. Dick and she had drifted so far apart now that they had really nothing to say to one another. Thank goodness that once they had gone their separate ways there was little probability that they would ever meet again.

Dick must have been thinking along the same lines for, once through Customs at London Airport, he suddenly turned to her, his hand outstretched.

“I don’t suppose you and I are likely to see each other again, Lucy,” he said diffidently. “But I would like to say that I think you’ve been an absolute brick— will you shake hands?”

“Yes, of course.” She put her hand into his and gave it a brief, firm grip. “I wish you the very best of luck, Dick!”

He mumbled something, shamed by her generosity, but Lucy had already turned away and was making arrangements for her luggage to go on the bus to the terminal. Dick, apparently, made other arrangements, for she did not see him again.

* * *

Mrs. Darvill hugged Lucy close.

“Darling, I couldn’t ask you to come home—but I am thankful that you have!” she exclaimed.

“But I had to,” Lucy protested. “How is Daddy?”

“They’re very well satisfied with his progress,” Mrs. Darvill replied thankfully. “Of course, it’s going to be a slow business, but he’s very patient, bless him! He’s looking forward so much to seeing you.”

“I ought never to have gone away,” Lucy said contritely. “I ought to have been here to help when it happened.”

“Nonsense, dear,” Mrs. Darvill said briskly. “No one could possibly know that this was going to happen— and in any case, your father and I quite agreed with you that going away was the wisest thing you could possibly do.”

It seemed to Lucy that there was an enquiry in her mother’s tone, and knowing what must be in her mind, she answered the unspoken question.

“It
was
the best thing, Mummy,” she said quietly. “And there’s no need for you to worry. I feel as if it all happened to someone else, not me. And as if it was all a long long time ago.”

Mrs. Darvill looked relieved.

“In that case, darling, we’ll' just forget all about it. And now, would you like a cup of tea?”

“I’d love one,” Lucy said, and followed her mother to the kitchen.

“It was very kind of Mrs. Mayberry to let you come at such short notice,” Mrs. Darvill remarked as she put the kettle on to boil. “It must be inconvenient for her to be without you.”

“I’m afraid it will be,” Lucy agreed. “But as you say, she is very kind. She simply took it for granted that I must come.”

“And she’ll keep your job open for you?” Mrs. Darvill asked anxiously.

“Oh, yes,” Lucy said casually, and changed the subject.

Mrs. Darvill took the hint. Lucy did not want to discuss the question of returning. Of course, the explanation for that might well be that she had already made up her mind to stay with her parents. Well, they couldn’t have the child sacrificing herself like that, of course, but somehow or other, Mrs. Darvill had the feeling that there might be another reason why Lucy would prefer not to go back. What that reason might be she had no intention of asking, but one could not help wondering—

Then the kettle began to boil and for the time being she gave the matter no further thought.

The next day, Lucy wrote to Mrs. Mayberry. She explained that although the specialist was quite satisfied with her father’s progress, he had made it clear that it was out of the question for Mr. Darvill ever to work again.

“What he really meant, of course, was that the same thing could happen again at any time," Lucy explained. “And because of this, and because of the extra work that will fall on my mother’s shoulders with my father always at home, I feel I ought not to leave them. I know my decision will cause you a great deal of inconvenience, and I am truly sorry for that, but I do hope you will understand—”

She sealed the envelope and took the letter to the post. Just for a moment, as she was going to drop it in, she held on to it. She couldn’t do it! Never to see Owen again—she couldn’t bear it.

But she had got to—for Owen’s sake.

“He’ll be thankful to know that he’s seen the last of me,” she thought bitterly. “And no wonder!”

Resolutely, she let go of the letter, turned her back on the pillar box and walked slowly home, her hands clenched deep in the pockets of her coat.

And that was the end of it all, she told herself firmly.

MRS. MAYBERRY passed Lucy’s letter to Owen and waited in silence while he read it.

“Just what you expected,” he commented as he handed it back.

“Yes. As I told you, I felt her mind was made up before she left,” Mrs. Mayberry confirmed.

Owen rubbed his hand thoughtfully along the line of his jawbone.

“Natural enough, really. She’s extremely fond of her parents.”

“Yes, she is,” Mrs. Mayberry agreed. “But if that was how she felt, why shouldn’t she have told me so before she left? Or at least said that she thought it very likely that she would not be returning.”

“Just exactly what did she say?” Owen asked.

“I let her see that I assumed she would come back to work for me, either here or at Spindles,” Mrs. Mayberry replied precisely. “And she promised that she would—if it was possible.”

“H’m. Doesn’t that come to the same thing—and that when she did reach home, she felt it wasn’t possible?” Owen suggested.

“Yes, it could have been that,” Mrs. Mayberry agreed. “But for one thing.” She hesitated momentarily as if choosing her words with considerable care. “Beyond all possible doubt Lucy was deeply distressed on her father’s account. None the less, I got the impression—” she paused again, “that in some peculiar way she was experiencing a very definite relief. I can’t be more precise than that, I’m afraid.”

“I think what you mean is that, distressed though she was, she was thankful to have an excuse to clear out,” Owen said harshly. “A genuine excuse that could not be questioned.”

“Yes, I suppose that is what I mean,” Mrs. Mayberry admitted. “But just why she should want such an excuse, I’ve no idea. Do you think it could have been anything to do with that unspeakable young man?”

“Corbett?” No, I don’t think so. Judging by what Lucy herself said, she had entirely got over any feeling for him.”

“I’m not surprised. One way and another, she must have been completely disillusioned, poor child. Yet, in a girl as sensitive as Lucy, I would have expected disillusionment itself to have left a mark. Possibly a loss of trust in humanity in general, or perhaps a degree of hardness. But I didn’t see any trace of anything like that in her. I would say, in fact, that since we all came here, she has been completely happy and carefree—?” she looked enquiringly at Owen.

“So she was—until that damned yacht arrived,” Owen agreed grimly.

“And yet you don’t associate any wish she may have had to get away with young Corbett?”

Owen shook his head without comment.

“Of course,” Mrs. Mayberry mused, “one does hear it said that nothing drives the memory of one man so completely out of a girl’s mind as falling in love with another.”

“Does one?” Owen smiled faintly. “Do you think perhaps she’s fallen in love with old Kelsall?”

Mrs. Mayberry treated this remark with the disdainful scorn it deserved. Owen dropped his hand affectionately on his aunt’s shoulder.