Pale blue sky with scudding clouds a dun sea dappled with pale silver and that intense greyish-white light on promenade, bleak-fronted houses and sparsely scattered visitors, which always makes everything so distinct as to seem unreal on such a day in Thorhaven like an old copper-print.

As Caroline sat in her pay-box at the gate of the promenade, she had plenty of time to note these atmospheric conditions, but she only felt them. That grey, clear, windy brightness was mingled for all the rest of her life with what was to happen during the months between this morning and the end of September, when the job would be over. But now she was entirely immersed in her ticket issuing, when there was any to do, and in feeling excited and self-conscious and important when there was not. Book, pencil, pile of tickets were all meticulously ready, and she would not put her window down for a moment despite the north-east wind which swept round the little shelter.

But so early in the season there was scarcely a person to be seen about on the broad, grey stretch of the promenade, and the gardener’s back as he worked hard at bedding out plants, looked in some way as if it still belonged to the easy-shirt-sleeved winter time, when Thorhaven was not expecting visitors. At last a little brisk woman with a neat figure came up to the turnstile, and Caroline greeted her with just that surprising warmth shown to casual acquaintances by stall-holders at a bazaar. “A season-ticket? Certainly. A pity not to get all the good out of it you can. Some people silly enough to wait until the season is half over and then pay just the same” But the woman appreciated this cordiality at its true worth and was unresponsive. “So you’ve got the job. They’d be sorry to part with Maggie.” Then pursing her lips, she placed her season ticket in her purse, and said with condescending asperity: “I want to go through, please.”

So Caroline, thus reminded, hastily released the turnstile with her knee from within, and felt momentarily abashed. After a while, however, a solitary visitor approached the little window, and she was doubly brisk and official to make up for it.

“Day-ticket? But are you staying a week? If so, you’ll find it much more to your advantage” Until the visitor, who did not really want a weekly ticket at all, but happened to be of that ever-growing class which is cowed at once by any sign of bureaucratic authority, did as Caroline suggested.

But little by little this first eagerness wore off, and by the time she returned from the tea interval during which her place had been taken by the girl who acted as “supply” she had already begun to show faint beginnings of the slightly contemptuous, detached air of the official. She was pleasant still, but as a favour, and with the whole power of the Thorhaven Council at her back “Three in family, I think? I suppose you take one for Mildred?” And she expected Mrs. Creddle’s neighbour to feel a little flattered by her remembering the size of the family.

But though justly irritated by that “Three in family, I think” when Caroline had pulled pigtails with Mildred only yesterday, as it were the good woman was actually pleased when Caroline “held up” a stout person in a fur coat and a motor veil to add pleasantly: “I suppose you are expecting visitors this week?” Which remark is the recognized conversational small change in Thorhaven, during spring and summer, scarcely more personal than the “Fine day!” of the country labourers who live in the still untouched country beyond the Cottage.

But if Mrs. Creddle’s neighbour said to herself that Caroline would soon be too big for her boots, there remained a slight glow of satisfaction in being acknowledged as an old acquaintance while an affluent person from a car was kept waiting. It is therefore not surprising that Wilfred Ball felt the same glow greatly intensified when he strolled up to the pay-box, twirling his walking-stick, to take his stand near by as the future proprietor of the girl inside. Perhaps the young husband of a great prima donna may feel nearly as sophisticated and proud and “in it” when he strolls carelessly into the dressing-room where the bouquets of admirers overflow upon the floor but this is scarcely likely, for he would not have the morning freshness still on him of a life spent so far between Thorhaven and Flodmouth.

Every now and then he took a little walk up and down the promenade, either alone or with a casual acquaintance, but he soon returned to enjoy close at hand this epoch-making evening. For now, he felt, there was nothing that could keep the Wilfred Balls back from those pinnacles of affluence which a combination of the more easily assimilated comic papers and articles on Self-Help had enabled him to envisage: Self-Help kind showing how a poor man might grow rich, and the comic papers how he might spend his money when he got it.

As the wife of a wealthy man, Caroline would be All Right. He had had his doubts before, at times, because he really felt it was a come-down for a young fellow in a seed-merchant’s office to be engaged to a servant. And remorse had something to do now with his ardour, because he really had begun to wonder if he could “keep on” with it, when Caroline was a true servant, living in, like the little maids all up and down the new streets. He had seen himself standing at a corner waiting for her under a lamp-post on her nights out, and had found his faithfulness wavering.

Still, she was Caroline and they had “gone together” ever since the time when he first perceived that a “girl” was as necessary to man’s estate as a dressy lounge suit and a Homburg hat. He did not like to behave badly to her. And now he had been rewarded. He had achieved the difficult feat mentioned in those articles he so casually read in the train, of keeping one eye on the main chance and the other on the example of Sir Galahad. Now he was still engaged to somebody who took tickets on the prom. and was a young lady and was yet Caroline. No wonder he stood and beamed, and walked away and twirled his stick and cocked his hat, and then came back and beamed again.

Other youths of her acquaintance, or enterprising strangers going through the barrier, had to content themselves with a “Good evening, miss,” or at most some more or less dashing remark about the weather; but he was the one to help her on with her coat when the brilliant shades of blue and yellow on the sentry-box had faded into grey: it was his privilege to walk her off with a hand through her arm, feeling sure that the three elderly spinsters and the one middle-aged gentleman who chanced to be about just there wondered who that gay dog was, and thought him no end of a fellow.

“Well, Carrie, how did you like it?” he said as they went along.

“Oh, it was all right,” said Caroline in an off-handed fashion but she also had an elated consciousness of being important, and did not care a bit though her feet were stone-cold from sitting still in the sentry-box.

So talking eagerly, they went down the main road until the last avenue was left behind and the loneliness of stars and sea-wind fronted them. Only one light glimmered above the privet hedge from an upper room in the Cottage.

At the gate they stopped to kiss and say good night as usual, but the excitement of a new experience had stirred Caroline’s emotions, and Wilf’s pride in her had also roused the possessive instinct in him, so that the kiss they exchanged was a little different from the almost passionless salute to which they had long grown accustomed. Wilf’s eyes shone and Caroline’s cheeks were flushed when they drew back from each other. She began to speak quickly, nervously. “Well, so long! They’ll think I’m never coming.”

“Here! Hold on a minute.” He caught her round the waist. “I say, Carrie, it’s rotten you having to go in, and me stopping outside. I wish you’d never promised to.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference if I had been staying at Uncle Creddle’s. They wouldn’t want company at this time of night,” she answered, peering up at him uneasily through the starry twilight.

“Carrie!” He held her closer, his thin, boyish arms trembling a little. “I wish to goodness we could have a home of our own. There’s some houses going to be built in that field there. I wish we could apply for one of them.”

“Well, we can’t,” said Caroline, touched by some wistful tone in the lad’s voice to a deeper tenderness for him than she had hitherto known. “We have nothing to get married on. People would only laugh at us.”

“But you wish it, same as me, Carrie? If I was one of them rich young chaps that can plank down the money for a half-year’s rent and a mahog’ny suite, like I do for a packet of cigs., you’d be ready to get married, Carrie?”

It was the first time they had seriously talked of marriage, though they had been “going together” ever since Caroline knew that a ‘boy’ was as essential to her grown-up panoply as hairpins, and she felt something indefinable at the back of her mind which was not pleasure; and yet it was not fear She turned from her own emotions with a sort of relief. “Goodness! There’s the church clock striking a quarter to eleven. We must have been three-quarters of an hour coming from the prom. here. I know Miss Ethel goes to bed at ten, and she’ll have been sitting up for me.”

“Never mind. You’re only stopping to oblige. They ought to be jolly thankful to you, whatever time you turn up,” babbled Wilf all impatient excitement. “Carrie, just one more. I must

He clung to her, then let her go. She ran up the path towards the house while he stood there, listening to her footsteps and yet restraining himself from following her, as a matter of course. For the idea of running after her and holding her in his arms by force, as he wanted to do, simply never entered his mind. Despite that dark lane and the evening hour, the chivalry of the ordinary decent Anglo-Saxon man which some races are unable to understand stood like a sentinel at the door of his desires.

Caroline entered the door of the Cottage in a state of hurry and excitement; but the empty kitchen seemed to act on it like a sort of emotional cold douche. The varnished walls, the neatly set chairs, the clock ticking so loudly above the mantel-shelf, all seemed somehow unnatural, with the unnaturalness of empty houses where steps go echoing echoing though nobody is there.

She hastily put the kettle on the gas-ring, then prepared a glass for Miss Ethel’s hot water and two cups for Mrs. Bradford’s cocoa and her own. But as the water would not boil all at once she stood there watching the little blue and yellowish flames of that unsatisfactory Thorhaven gas splutter under the kettle. All sorts of thoughts went scurrying about her mind as the clock measured the seconds tick-tock! tick-tock! over her head.

How silly of Wilf to begin to talk about marrying at all. But, of course, if you were engaged only she and Wilf werent engaged. Theyd been going together, of course, but she had no ring. She had never considered herself really engaged. Neither had Aunt Creddle

But the kettle suddenly boiled over, so she filled the glass and the cups, and hurried off with the tray, her head still so full of her own engrossing thoughts that she did not become aware that visitors were present until she was well inside the room.

“Oh, Caroline, you can just put the tray down on the round table,” said Miss Ethel, high and cool. It was plain that she thought the hour very late, and that Caroline’s red cheeks, disordered hair and hat rakishly on one side did not please her.

Caroline’s face became still more flushed and she flung up her head as she crossed the room, then put down the tray with a considerable clatter. But the clatter was unintentional though Miss Ethel would not have believed this and was due to a small piece of needlework on the table which caused the cup and glass to stand unevenly on the tray. Caroline heard the sharp indrawing of Miss Ethel’s breath on the way to the door, and her whole being was in a prickly heat of defiance and embarrassment “Only wait until to-morrow morning! To-morrow morning, they would just hear about it. They might look somewhere else for a girl who would let herself be spoken to as if she was something unpleasant that crawled

But through the fiery mist that seemed to blind her as she re-crossed the room, she heard another voice speaking: “Good evening, Miss Raby. How did you like your first day at the promenade?”

It was a lovely voice, clear yet mellow, and Caroline, despite all her anger and wounded pride, felt obliged to answer civilly: “Oh, I liked it all right, Miss Temple, thank you.”

The door closed; there was a pause while Caroline’s high heels clacked faintly across the tiled floor of the hall, and then a sound burst forth like the sudden chattering of rooks when they are startled in their nests by a shot fired close at hand.

“Well, I never! Coming in at a quarter to eleven and taking that attitude!” said Mrs. Bradford, in her heavy wheezy contralto.

“It’s the same in everything. The world’s upside down,” jerked out Miss Ethel, flushed and tight-lipped. “Oh, we little knew what a lovely world we lived in twenty years ago. We took it all for granted. Good servants: low prices. People knowing their duty.”

“Did they, though?” said Laura Temple. “I think it must have been perfectly horrid to be a maid-servant in those days. Only out one night a week, and once on Sunday at most, and kept as close during the rest of the time as if you were in a nunnery.”

“They were happy, though,” said Miss Ethel. “Happier, I think, than these girls are now. Look at Ellen! Wasn’t she the picture of content?”

Then Mrs. Graham’s high voice shrilled across the buzz of talk. “Mine actually wears silk stockings on her evenings out silk stockings!”

“What I say,” boomed Mr. Graham soothingly, “best make up your minds to let things go. You can’t alter them. My wife here worked herself up into such a state of nerves during the war that she had to take bromide for months, and I’m not going to let that happen again. I don’t allow any discussion of national difficulties, either at home or abroad. We read the head-lines in the newspaper so that we know what has actually happened, and we leave other people’s speculations about things alone. Only way to go on living with any comfort.”

Mrs. Graham looked across at her husband with affection, and murmured aside to Laura Temple: “It is really on Arthur’s account that we have banned discussion on strikes and Ireland and so on. He gets indigestion if he dwells on painful topics. So I just make things as comfortable as I can in our own house, and let the world take care of itself. A wife’s first duty is to make her husband happy, as you will find out before long, my dear.”

Laura smiled back at Mrs. Graham, with the colour deepening a shade under the soft brown eyes which exactly matched her voice.

“There’s no idea of our being married yet, Mrs. Graham,” she said. “For one thing, our house will not be ready for some time.” But behind her quiet words she was saying to herself that never, never would she and Godfrey emulate Mr. and Mrs. Graham’s system of guarding the common existence from anything found disturbing to comfort, with a tame good conscience ready to call it conjugal devotion.

“I expected to see Mr. Wilson with you to-night,” murmured Mrs. Graham: then she leaned nearer to Laura and said in a still lower tone: “I suppose he is in disgrace here for being the agent for the sale of that field beyond the privet hedge?”

“Yes. They think he might somehow have avoided selling it because he is a connection of theirs,” replied Laura. “But the Warringborns would only have taken their business to another firm, of course. Godfrey says a man must look after himself in these days. You can’t afford to offend a valuable client for the sake of a second cousin.”

“Ridiculous!” said Mrs. Graham. Then she paused a moment until her husband’s voice again made confidences possible. “Oh, they will get used to the idea of houses being built there in time. Look how disturbed they were about Emerald Avenue when it was first started.”

“Yes.” Laura paused, her charming, irregular face with its creamy complexion and frame of brown wavy hair turned to the speaker, and her broad forehead wrinkled a little, as it was when she was puzzled or perturbed. “But I really am sorry for them now. You see, the privet hedge hid all those streets from the garden. They could forget there were any there. Now they won’t be able to forget.” She paused. “I simply daren’t tell them who has bought Thorhaven Hall. I know it gave even me a shock, because I always used to feel an awed sensation the sort you have going into a strange church or a museum when you are little whenever I called at the Hall. It was so dark and big and quiet, and the old butler took your name as if you were at a funeral, and ought to be awfully honoured to have been asked to attend. I simply can’t imagine the Perritt’s there.”

Mrs. Graham rose. “Oh, I believe the Perritt children are very sweet. And there is something rather nice about Mrs. Perritt, I’m told.”

Miss Ethel looked across the room, and it was evident that she heard the last remark, for she said in a dry tone: “Lots of people would discover something sweet about me if I came into ten thousand a year; nothing like money for enabling the eye to detect hidden charms.”

Mrs. Graham laughed somewhat uneasily. “How amusing you are, Miss Ethel! I often tell Arthur it is quite refreshing to have a chat with you.” But for all that, she began to move towards the door.

Laura also rose, and it could be now seen that her tall figure was a trifle angular and immature, and must remain so, for she was already twenty-eight years old. “I will come as far as your house, Mrs. Graham,” she said. “Godfrey promised to call for me there.”

“Well! No good crying over spilt milk,” said Mr. Graham, standing and shaking down his trousers after a habit he had with his hands in his pockets. “Things will never be the same again in our day, Miss Ethel.”

“No.” Mrs. Bradford, who had been silent, as she often was, unexpectedly entered the conversation, saying in her heavy voice: “Things will never be the same again.” And a brief silence followed her words. You could fancy them echoing in every heart there.

“I remember getting oranges twelve a penny in Flodmouth,” continued Mrs. Bradford, stirred to unwonted intellectual effort. “Twelve a penny! Perhaps you don’t believe me, but I did.”

No one taking up the gage which Mrs. Bradford thus threw down, the guests said farewell and then went out into the starlight.

As they walked along, all Laura’s thoughts were about the lover waiting for her; but Mr. and Mrs. Graham could not get rid of that slight sense of inward discomfort stirred afresh by Mrs. Bradford’s first remark which many middle-aged people experience as a result of Fate’s ruthlessly quick forcing of new wine into old bottles.

As they passed the new streets there was an odd light here and there in the shadowy rows of houses, and when they turned the corner the sea-wind was full in their faces. The glass roof of the Promenade Hall glimmered faintly under the immense sweep of starlit sky, and the quiet waves drew away “C-raunch! C-r-raunch!” from the piece of gravelled shore which the tide had reached. The good-sized, semi-detached houses built in a row opposite the promenade stood all so black and lifeless that Mr. Graham’s click of the iron gate sounded quite roistering on the still night. Then the front door opened and light streamed out, illuminating the figure of a man of medium height, rather stockily built, who came quickly down the little path, calling out as he approached: “I’d almost given you up, Laura. I should have fetched you from the Cottage, only I thought the old girls would cut up rough. I suppose they haven’t forgiven me for that notice board yet? They think I’m a low fellow, I know.”

“No, no,” said Laura, smiling. “A man with the Wilson blood in his veins couldn’t be really low, Godfrey only misguided. You know they think even a bad Wilson must after all be slightly better at the bottom than other people.”

“Jolly good theory,” he said, throwing out his broad chest and laughing down at his lady, who had slipped her hand through his arm. “I hope they converted you.”

Then they all laughed though there was nothing at all amusing in his remark simply because he was so sure of himself and seemed to expect it, Laura glanced up at his large-featured face with soft brown eyes full of admiring affection, and the scar on his cheek from a shrapnel wound still had power to move her. For he had “done splendidly” in the war, enlisting in 1915 and showing marked courage, though his very highly-developed instinct for self-preservation had enabled him to escape dangers where some men might have been caught. No wonder that as Laura stood there with her hand through his strong arm, she thrilled to the certainty that he would break with ease through every obstacle in life, both for himself and her.

“I’m sorry to have kept you so long,” she said. “But I think we have fixed up everything about the Fête for the Women’s Convalescent Home now. We are so short of funds that we must do something.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Graham, “the people who used to support it haven’t the money to give any longer; and those who have it, won’t give, I suppose.”

“Oh, don’t let us start that all over again,” said Mrs. Graham. “Arthur, you will take cold standing here in the night air. Laura, won’t you come in for a few minutes?”

But Laura had no desire to share that cosy half-hour by the fire during which Mr. Graham would press his Lizzie to pile on coal and put more sugar in her cocoa for the good of her health, and she would press him to take a little whisky and hot water in spite of the high price for the same reason.