LITMIR.BIZ

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more heavily every minute, but I held off until I saw how Barbara reacted. Now we know where we stand.”

      “Yes, of course we do,” he breathed, kissing her impulsively. “And if it comes to needing a model—”

      “I’m ready and willing,” she smiled. “You have only to teach me whatever tricks there are.... Oh, the whole thing’s so simple,” she went on. “You a great artist, I a writer. That sort of combination can focus attention on me as nothing else could.”

      “There you go again, talking in riddles,” he muttered.

      “No.” She shook her head. “You’ll see what I mean as you un­derstand me better.”

      He studied her for a moment as though trying to analyze her, then he turned aside to pick up a duster for his paint-smeared hands.

      “For this morning,” he said, “work’s finished. We’re going out this very moment for an engagement ring.”

      She nodded eagerly. “And this afternoon I’ll go back home and clear up my affairs there. Then I can come back to London permanently.”

      “I’ll come back to Midhampton with you....” Clive put an arm about her shoulders.

      “But—but, dearest, that would be a waste of time! There’s really no need. I can clear everything up very quickly. Besides, it might look rather bad, you and I—”

      “Oh, be hanged to that! We’ll be engaged officially by then. Anyway, what kind of a man do you think I am?” Clive asked in wonder, lowering his arm. “Since we’re on our way to being married it’s my job to help you fix up whatever you want. No reason why I shouldn’t, is there? There isn’t anything peculiar about this Tudor cottage you live in, surely?”

      Elsa gave a worried smile. “No, of course not, only I really do think—”

      “I’m coming,” he said, with quiet decision. “We’ll catch the train for Midhampton immediately after lunch.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      At four o’clock the rattling local train, which formed a connection from Guildford, had brought Elsa and Clive to the rural station of Midhampton with its profusions of summer flowers. Here Clive chartered the solitary horse-drawn cab and, since he clearly knew Elsa well, the driver had only to be told to take her home.

      “Quaint place you live in, anyway,” Clive commented, looking out on to the sun-drenched and completely inactive village street.

      “If you only knew how much I hate it!” Elsa clenched her fists in her lap. “I’ve seen it for as long as I can remember. It is one of the earliest of my recollections. It holds nothing for me except unpleasant memories—of scolding, of being told not to do this and not to do that.”

      Clive gave her a serious, half puzzled glance.

      “You mean your parents were strict? That it?”

      “That’s it. They believed in the policy of a child being seen and not heard, but they carried it to excess, and being an only child I received the brunt of everything. I think,” Elsa fin­ished moodily, “I only started to live when they died. And twenty-five is a pretty late age to start living isn’t it?”

      “Not if you do it properly,” Clive murmured, and patted her left hand on which was the clawed bulging diamond he had purchased for her in London prior to lunch.

      Since she said nothing further he spent his time gazing out of the window again. The cab left the village presently and fol­lowed a solitary tree-lined road. On one side of it were meadows, golden with the summer light, stretching away to the distant blue line of the Hog’s Back. On the other side there was a peculiar darkness in the grassless soil. It looked as though an evil hand had spread itself over the landscape and commanded that no green thing should grow.

      “That’s Barraclough’s Swamp,” Elsa explained, noticing Clive’s rather mystified expression. “It extends for about five square miles, and unless you know it thoroughly—as I do—it’s a death trap. There are two paths across it, one of them true—which I use sometimes myself as a short cut to my home—and the other false, which leads right into the mire. Get on that, and you never get out!”

      “Charming thought,” Clive murmured, with a little shiver. “And where’s your place? Can we see it yet?”

      “In a moment, when we’ve rounded the next bend.”

      He looked ahead with interest and after a little while there came into view, well back from the road and completely isolated, a detached house in perfect replica of Tudor style, low-gabled, slanting-roofed in red tiles, with—he noticed as they came nearer—diamond-shaped window panes. It was evident, however, that the gardens needed attention. Cultivated flowers were foundering in a choking wilderness of weeds.

      “I’ve no time to bother with gardening,” Elsa said, seeing Clive’s look. “And I don’t like a gardener prowling about the place when I’m all alone.”

      The cab stopped and Clive sat looking at the house pensively. “Nice place,” he said approvingly. “Once it’s tidied up.”

      Elsa stirred as he opened the door for her. As he alighted beside her in the road he asked a question.

      “Do you want the cab to wait for us, or what?”

      “No; that won’t be necessary. We can walk back to the village when we’re ready. At the same time I’ll call on the estate agent. He’s a sort of jack-of-all-trades who’ll handle everything.”

      Clive nodded, paid off the driver, then followed the girl along the front path to a portico of rustic-faced stone. She removed a key from her big, chrome-topped handbag and opened the front door.

      Clive walked behind her into a square, tastefully furnished hall and then into a lounge leading from it. There was nothing unique about the room. It was light and sunny, windows at each end looking on to the back and front gardens, and comfortably furnished.

      “Sit down, Clive,” Elsa said. “I’ll fix up some tea and sandwiches for us—”

      “But surely I can help you?”

      “There’s no need. Really.”

      But since he was insistent, she said no more and he wandered after her into the kitchen. He stood against the doorway, watching her make preparations, unable to help her because he did not know where to find anything. Then he frowned a little as he caught sight of the big cupboard doors over the stove. They were firmly closed and secured with six shiny-headed screws down the sides.

      “That’s a queer idea, isn’t it?” he asked, and Elsa glanced above her head.

      “Oh, you mean the doors? That was my father’s idea. They used to keep swinging out a lot and he was always banging his head on them. One day he got really mad and screwed them up.”

      “And you’ve left them like that? They only want new catches. Think of the cupboard room you’re losing.”

      “I’m not bothered. One person doesn’t need a lot of cupboard room, anyway.”

      Elsa completed the sandwiches and made tea without explaining matters any further. As she and Clive drank it in the lounge Clive glanced about him.

      “Seems a pity to have to sell this place up,” he mused. “So quiet and restful. I believe I really could paint masterpieces here. So much better than in that rather squalid studio of mine.”

      “My only wish,” Elsa answered quietly, “now I’ve got the oppor­tunity is to get away from this place. I know every stick and stone of it. As I told you, I was born in it. I must get away from it, Clive. To settle down here to married life would be just too much for me.”

      He smiled. “Okay. We’ll use my London flat until we can find something larger. Now, what things do you want to keep, and what to sell? You’d better make an inventory, then the

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