Early that afternoon—it was the first of December—Jean went home and quietly told her dismayed aunt that she and Harry Garlett loved one another. She admitted that it was very strange that neither of them had known it before to-day, but she went on to say that now they did know it, they were very, very happy.

Poor Mrs. Maclean! For the first time in her life she felt as if she could not cope with a situation—and she prayed for the doctor’s return home.

But when he did come in, tired out, from a difficult case, he only said grumpily: “So that was what was the matter with him yesterday? We were fools not to have foreseen it,” and telephoned to ask Harry Garlett to supper.

How different was this evening from that spent by them all the night before! Even Mrs. Maclean, staid Scots body that she was, caught fire at the great shaft of pure white flame which seemed to envelop those two who had now become lovers.

To her husband she might mutter that it was only just over six months since “poor Emily” died, but to herself she kept saying how wonderful, how uplifting, even only to watch, was this ecstatic passion between a man she had secretly imagined incapable of love, and her matter-of-fact, capable, merry little Jean.

Dr. Maclean was far from pleased. He kept wondering, ruefully, what he should say to Tasker. The man would undoubtedly be bitterly disappointed. Nay, more, he might feel that he hadn’t been treated quite fairly.

The doctor was also uncomfortably aware that there would be “talk,” and almost as if his wife were able to see into his mind, just before Harry Garlett at last got up, Mrs. Maclean suddenly exclaimed:

“There’s one thing I’m minded to say, Harry. I’m afraid 54Jean mustn’t go to the factory any more—not till you’re married, that is.”

54

As both the girl and her lover exclaimed against the cruel decision, Dr. Maclean clinched the matter.

“Your aunt’s quite right,” he said firmly. “Grendon’s the greatest place for gossip in England.”

“We don’t mind gossip.”

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