"I hope it will come to pass." Mrs. Guthrie spoke
very seriously, and once more she fixed her deep blue
eyes on her visitor's face. "I'm seventy-one, not very
old as people count age nowadays, but still I've never
been a strong woman, and I have a weak heart. I
should not like to leave my son to a lonely life and to a
lonely old age. He's very reserved -- he hasn't made
many friends in his long life. And I thought it possible
he might have confided to you rather than to me."

"No, he never spoke of the matter to me at all; in
fact, we have never even discussed the idea of his marrying,"
said Mrs. Otway slowly.

"Well, forget what I've said!"

But Mrs. Guthrie's visitor went on, a little breathlessly
and impulsively: "I quite understand how you
feel about Major Guthrie, and I daresay he would be
happier married. Most people are, I think."

She got up; it was nearly six -- time for her to be
starting on her walk back to Witanbury.

Obeying a sudden impulse, she bent down and kissed
the old lady good-bye. There was no guile, no taint
of suspiciousness, in Mary Otway's nature.

Mrs. Guthrie had the grace to feel a little ashamed.

"I hope you'll come again soon, my dear." She was
surprised to feel how smooth and how young was the
texture of Mrs. Otway's soft, generously-lipped mouth
and rounded cheek.

There rose a feeling of real regret in her cynical old
heart. "She likes him better than she knows, and far
better than I thought she did!" she said to herself, as
she watched the still light, still singularly graceful-looking
figure hurrying away towards the house.

As for Mrs. Otway, she felt oppressed, and yes, a

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