days, when she was just as fussy and talkative. She married the butler at the Albert Gate house in London, and kept a lodging-house on the east coast. The War had done for the lodging-house, and the butler was slain by sickness in India. She had a pension and no doubt Lady Shard was kind to "my good Chipman", as she called her. Pamela could just remember her at Crown Hill; now, she looked fatter, more dumpy, and more pompous, otherwise just the same. This discovery was a blow, because it was a simple explanation of the visitor to Woodrising--Chipman, sent down to stay with Mrs. Trewby, at the Shards’ expense. Of course, but how dull! The girl could have nothing on earth to do with them. 

As Pamela shook the wet off her skirt, she realized that she had been so intent on trying to remember Chipman that she never listened to a word she was saying. Rather depressed, she went back along the path to the corner, and as she went she heard Mrs. Chipman calling--"Countess--Countess." "If they are going to let a dog out I’d better run," thought Pamela; and she went over the wall briskly, into the wooded meadow.

To go back to the start of the white yawl. After the mooring-buoy had "plopped" into the smooth sea, the sails half-filled, and then, as the pretty craft righted herself, they slackened again in a succession of sleepy rattles. Then followed a period of drifting to leeward, the dinghy drifting also, and bumping softly against the yacht’s counter in a stupid manner. 

Adrian flung himself on the deck and mopped his forehead; he said: "I wonder why Mother always rejoices when there is no wind. It doesn’t appeal to me as a desirable state of things. Pam looks jolly comfortable over there--wish I was in her place! I say, Crow, don’t say we’re going to play the fool like this all day." 

"Why say anything in such a very short space of time, dear boy," retorted the skipper lazily; "we’ve hardly started--isn’t that thunder, hark?" 

"It is thunder, my good woman," allowed Adrian, "which means growlings, heat and stickiness immeasurable. Don’t give way to optimistic hopes and picture--first a gentle cooling shower, and then a sweet little breeze that will waft us to Peterock without a tack."

Christobel, obstinately happy, lay back in a comfortable position with one arm thrown over the tiller. Suddenly she sat up. A queer little breeze had dropped upon them from the heights. The slack sails filled, the yawl leaned gently to leeward and, with ever-increasing speed, began to cut steadily through the glassy heaving sea. Straight out they went--out and out into the world of 

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