guard against a malignant intelligence which had taken it unawares. Therefore, although Miss Loveapple met only three persons that afternoon, and in each case the conversation was of a casual nature, every contact was a move in a game played by invisible players and had its repercussion on the future.
She was accompanied by Scottie, who was delighted to take her for a walk. He showed off by covering every stretch of distance three times to her once, but he always returned to assure himself of her safety. In spite of this proof of fidelity, whenever he met another dog he ignored her completely and pretended he was out alone on his legitimate business.
Reluctantly Miss Loveapple left the shade of the leafy tunnel. She crossed the shrunken river by the hump-backed bridge and reached the green which was ringed with white chains swung between posts. It was here she met the masculine spinster of the All Hallows E'en party.
Unaffected by the heat, Miss Agatha Pitt was exercising her dogs. A felt hat was jammed down over her eyes and she wore a tailored suit of green knitwear which reproached Miss Loveapple's home-made jumper and skirt. As she raised her hand in greeting, Miss Loveapple could not keep back her news, in spite of a previous resolution to affect nonchalance.
'My luck again,' she cried triumphantly. 'I'm going to Switzerland.'
Agatha Pitt showed no sign of shock.
'I'm going to Beer,' she said. 'South Devon.'
'Nice name.'
'Isn't it? I could do with some now. But I'd swap it for—wherever it is you're going.'
'Grindelwald.'
Agatha Pitt wrinkled her nose in doubt.
'It used to be very nice, even in the summer,' she said. 'My aunts went there regularly. But they run so many popular trips now. You'll meet people.'
'I don't mind about them, as long as the mountains are the same shape. I'm going to meet them. But I haven't been there since I was a child. Can you give me any tips?'
Miss Pitt brightened at the opening.
'To begin with, you must travel light,' she advised. 'One suitcase only and a small bag for the night in the train. Have you a passport?'
'Yes, I got one when I went to Brussels, four years ago. What about clothes?'
'Your oldest.' True to type, Miss Pitt was faithful to a tradition which still lingers in select country circles. 'If you have any old rag you want to wear out, or something that's not suitable for home, now's your chance.'
'Suits me,' declared Miss Loveapple. 'The Pond House is wearing my new dress. Have you noticed the white satin curtains?'
'I have. Positively bridal.'
Agatha Pitt's sun-flushed face grew redder as she fought her natural disinclination to offer advice. To her, there was a crazy element in a scheme when the house wore a wedding garment instead of the mistress.
'I wish you'd meet someone nice in Switzerland,' she said, 'and come back engaged.'
'Why? You haven't.'
'Leave me out of it. I've missed it—but it doesn't amuse me particularly to see the other foxes running about without tails. Have you never thought of getting married?'
'Sometimes. It means a hopeful young man will expect me to live in his house and spend my money on a new car, every Olympia, and public schools for the boys. No, thanks.'
'But is it worth it?' persisted Agatha Pitt. 'Keeping up three houses, I mean. What do you get out of it?'
'A lot,' confessed Miss Loveapple. 'It's difficult to explain, but it makes me feel up in the sky. Different from other people. Tomorrow when I'm in the train I can say to myself, "I may be shabby, but I'm the only person here with three houses.'"
'Are you travelling up early, as usual?' hinted Miss Pitt.
'Yes, by the workman's train.' Miss Loveapple laughed with perfect good temper. 'Don't try to be subtle. Leave that to George Arliss. I admit there won't be much competition—but if I were travelling in a Pullman with rich people, I wouldn't mind betting I would still be the only person with three houses.'
Miss Pitt changed the subject, since she felt too prejudiced to argue politely.
'Would you like me to keep an eye on your animals while you are away?' she asked.
'I was hoping you would offer. You are an angel...But please be tactful, because Elsie is so sensitive. Do you know her taste is so delicate she can't eat "insides"—not even sweetbreads?'
'I'll make a note of it for the next time she comes to dinner. "No sweetbreads for Miss Loveapple's maid."...By the way, you will miss the Garden Fête.'
'I know. I'm on my way to the Rectory, to break it to Mrs Bosanquet...Good-bye.'
'Good-bye. Don't forget to travel light and wear your oldest clothes.'
'I shall wear my shorts.'
Agatha Pitt concealed her shudder, for in her code 'cut' ran neck-to-neck with Cleanliness, to come in second to Godliness.
'If I don't see you again, "Good luck,"' she said.
'I shall get that,' declared Miss Loveapple confidently.
Although she had been the herald of personal good fortune, her triumph had proved faintly bittersweet. As she followed Scottie across the green, some residue of doubt kept rising to cloud her satisfaction. She was reminded that the village afforded opportunities for friendship of which she was not able to avail herself. Owing to her constant migrations, she had lost touch with the natives.
For example, there was Agatha Pitt. Apart from an inability to appreciate Elsie properly, she had excellent qualities. She had just proved herself not only free from envy, but cheerfully ready for personal service.
A small scarlet sports car shot by, packed with golf-sticks, dogs, two large young men and a girl who was driving. They all bowed to her with the formality due to a superior adult, instead of greeting her with shouts or waves.
'I can't be much older than that girl,' reflected Miss Loveapple, 'but I'm always paired with Agatha Pitt and her gang...Odd.'
Then the burnt grass of the misnamed green made her think of snow-mountains and her usual happiness returned.
'Rectory, Scottie,' she said.
The small dog immediately led her towards the long flight of stone steps which led up to the church.
Any one who lived in Highfield was qualified to take a postman's job, since much of the village was built on elevated ground and was reached only by climbing stairs. As Miss Loveapple mounted the hollowed treads, on either side of her were picturesque cottages, overgrown with creepers and nasturtiums.
Half-way up, she paused on a broad paved landing and, turning to the right, passed through tall wrought-iron gates. The shady grass square inside, with its clipped yews, was somewhat like a monastery garden; but the illusion was shattered, as she drew near the front door of the Rectory, by a clamour of shrill feminine voices.
The rector's wife was holding a Mother's Meeting in the dining-room. Before her marriage, she had been matron of a Cottage hospital, so she was in her element as she laid down the law on the subject of hygiene. She ruled the Parish with kindly efficiency, but she had never grown accustomed to the absence of her cap. That afternoon, in spite of the heat and the fact that she was in her own house, she wore a hat with strings tied under her chin to mark an official occasion.
She liked Miss Loveapple, for she saw in her the ideal probationer, after she had been subdued by drudgery and snubs; but all the same, she challenged her unauthorised entrance.
'Since when have you become a mother? Produce the infant—or you'll get no tea.'
'You know perfectly well I have two fur sons,' said Miss Loveapple. 'Besides, I've not come to cadge.'
At that moment, the cook appeared to announce