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"And a husband?” Miss Alice teased gently.

"Well—yes. Only not just as a means to get a home of own. I don’t want to marry anyone unless—unless he matters so much that it wouldn’t matter if we had to live in one room or in a palace! ”

Miss Alice laughed.

"I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t find that there are problems in either. But you’ve got the right idea and I'll make out all right. He’s going to be a lucky man, Rosamund!”

"But there isn’t anybody—I mean, I was just talking in general terms,” Rosamund explained in alarm.

“Of course. So was I,” Miss Alice said absently as she checked through the contents of her handbag and made a few additions to it. “Now, is there anything you want me to buy for you in Bath? Cosmetics—anything like that?”

“No, thank you,” Rosamund said so definitely that, seeing Miss Alice’s slightly quizzical expression, she added hurriedly: “I suppose it does seem a bit odd that I don’t use make-up, but it seems so out of place here—”

“Yes, I suppose it does, really,” Miss Alice agreed. “Well, I think that’s all. I’ll be off now.”

Rosamund watched her go with a sense of relief of which she felt ashamed. It didn’t seem right to feel one must be on one’s guard with anyone who had been so incredibly kind to her as Miss Alice had been, and yet she felt she must be. Miss Alice never asked inquisitive questions, but Rosamund knew that more than once she had been perilously near to giving more information about herself than she had meant to—almost as if she had been deliberately lured on to thin ice.

“But that’s nonsense!” she told herself sturdily as she watched Miss Alice pause to exchange a few words with John. “She’s far too nice a person to do that sort of thing. It’s me! I don’t think I’m really a deceitful sort of person and I just forget to be careful. I wish I felt I could tell Miss Alice everything. I would if only I wasn’t such a coward! But I’m still too much afraid of Aunt Ruth to risk the possibility of anybody linking me up with her! If she suddenly turned up here and told me I’d got to go back with her—” She drew a long, shuddering breath at the thought and something of the brightness of the day vanished.

She went into her cabin and began, aimlessly, to turn over the clothes she had brought with her. They weren’t very inspiring and she quickly saw that, being off the peg and cheap at that, they had been cut from the minimum amount of material and that the seams and turnings would allow for no letting out. She bundled them all back into the wardrobe-cupboard with a little sigh. Just for a moment she felt that it would be fun to wear the sort of clothes she used to—

But the sigh turned into a chuckle. All those immaculately tailored trouser-suits, the delicate materials of dresses and negligees—why, besides looking out of place here, they wouldn’t last five minutes! A few grassy stains on dungarees or easily washed frocks didn’t matter, nor did rambles and briars do much harm to her bare legs that wouldn’t heal in a few days, but Aunt Ruth’s exquisite creations—!

All the same, something prompted her to study her face far more closely than usual in the rather spotty mirror. She’d never really liked using the heavy make-up Aunt Ruth insisted on, but now she felt that just a little, perhaps—

It was then, for the first time, that she realised how brown her skin was compared with what it had been and that the natural colour in her face and particularly lips as brighter than it used to be. Perhaps, after all, she didn’t need make-up!

Anyway, John didn’t seem to think so, for when she talked past the
Seven Stars
his greeting was extremely flattering even if he sounded slightly surprised.

“Hallo, you’re looking remarkably attractive this morning, Rosamund! What’s happened? Been left a fortune?”

“No, just I feel absolutely fit and flourishing,” she told him gaily. “Partly because it’s such a lovely day and also because I’m afraid Miss Alice is right—I am all the better for having put on some weight, even though all my clothes are getting tight!”

John inspected her critically.

“You don’t look like a heavyweight to me even so,” he remarked. “Just—” his hands moved expressively, “pleasantly curvaceous!” and he laughed. “Now I’ve made you blush—I didn’t think girls could, nowadays! Come and have some coffee?” he added coaxingly. “Just to show you’re not cross with me!”

“I’m not cross, truly,” Rosamund told him. “But I really mustn’t have extras like that or I shall get
huge
! Actually, I’m going for a good long walk—and I’ve wrought just two apples with me—that’s going to be my lunch!”

John groaned.

“Sooner you than me! I like my grub! Well, I hope you enjoy yourself! If you come back in a fainting condition, I’ll cook you—bacon and eggs!”

She flashed a reproachful look at him and then asked impulsively:

“Why don’t you come too? You don’t get very much exercise—”

“Not get exercise!” He was really quite indignant. “What do you call humping buckets of water and doing housework and cooking and washing-up and going shopping—besides— ” he ran his fingers through his hair until it stood on end, a note of irritation crept into his voice— “I simply must get down to that damned play ! It’s holding out on me ! ”

Rosamund didn’t answer immediately. John rarely talked about his work and she wasn’t sure what was the right thing to say. Ought one to be sympathetic or encouraging—either, she thought, might be rather irritating.

“You see,” John went on bleakly, “it’s too long! And I can’t boil what I want to say down to the length it will have to be—at least, not without leaving out what I feel are some of the best lines I’ve written ! Oh well, there it is! My problem, not yours ! Off you go and enjoy yourself.”

“I wish I could help,” Rosamund said wistfully.

John looked at her curiously.

“Bless you, poppet, I believe you mean that!” He sounded as if he was really touched. “But I’m afraid it’s a one-man job—and I’m the man! So off you go before I’m tempted to down tools and come with you!” He blew her an airy kiss and vanished into the day cabin.

There was a happy little smile on Rosamund’s lips as she began her walk. What a different sort of person John had turned out to be from what she had thought he was when they had first met! Even the fact that he was in trouble with his writing didn’t make him turn into that scowling, unfriendly person that he had been then.

Not for the first time she wondered not only what had brought about the change but why he had been like that at all. There had been something very wrong, though just what she had no means of knowing, for John was as reticent about himself as she was about herself. Not that it really worried her. John, she was quite certain, was thoroughly nice. She simply couldn’t imagine him doing anything underhand or dishonest. So, as long as he was happier now, why worry? So she didn’t—at least, not about that. Only about John’s present problem. If only she could help him over that!

Deep in thought, she walked along the path up to Yeoman’s Lock, crossed the bridge and paused to pass the time of day with the lock-keeper’s wife, a plump, cheerful woman, busy kneading a batch of bread-dough.

“Going for a walk, are you, miss? And a very nice day for it, too! But you didn’t ought to be alone, not a pretty lady like you! Isn’t there a nice gentleman somewhere to keep you from being lonely?”

It was said in such a friendly way that it was impossible for Rosamund to take offence even though a knowing jerk of the head in the direction of the long-boats made it clear that the speaker had John in mind.

“Oh, I shan’t be lonely, Mrs. Bunce. I’ve got a lot to think about—” she said cheerfully, but that didn’t satisfy Mrs. Bunce.

“You don’t want to do too much thinking, not at your age,” she disapproved. “What you ought to be doing is having a good time while you can! It doesn’t last long, you know. Once you get married and the children come—” she shook her head, but looked so contented that Rosamund laughed.

“Well, you don’t look as if you’ve found it too depressing,” she commented.

“Ah, but then I’ve always had to work hard,” Mrs. Bunce explained. “Right from a girl. Mother died and I was the eldest of five—but you, miss—” she shook her head reproachfully. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look as if you could stand up to much in the way of hard work!”

This was so obviously another feeler for information that Rosamund decided it would be wiser not to linger.

“Oh, I’m stronger than I look,” she said lightly. “And now I really must get on with my walk or I’ll have no time left! ”

“Drop in on your way back and I’ll have a hot loaf ready for you,” Mrs. Bunce offered cordially.

Though the mere thought of hot home-made bread made Rosamund’s mouth water, she was on the point of explaining that she was trying to lose weight when it occurred to her that John would certainly enjoy the treat, and accepted the offer gratefully.

An hour and a half later she was back at the Lock, very hungry and very tired. The apples she had taken with her didn’t even take the edge off her appetite and she hadn’t taken into consideration that she wasn’t used to walking any distance. It was rather disturbing. Perhaps, after all, Mrs. Bunce had been right and she wasn’t as strong as she had thought, though goodness knew, she’d worked hard enough until now! Aunt Ruth had seen to that! But of course, it had been a very different sort of work.

“A hot-house plant, that’s what I was,” she thought regretfully. “Too used to going even the shortest distance by car! Well, I’ll just have to get into training, that’s all, because I’m not going to miss half the fun in life because I’m so feeble!”

There was no sign of John when she reached the
Seven Stars
, but with Mrs. Bunce’s lovely crusty loaf as an excuse, she crossed the gangplank and went in search of him. He was in the day cabin, sitting at the table. It was covered with sheets of paper and John, looking thoroughly gloomy, was stirring them up with one hand as if he was in despair of finding anything worth keeping among them.

“Hallo.” He looked up, but there was no welcome either in his face or in the way he spoke. “Back again?”

“Yes,” Rosamund said briskly, determined not to be put out by his lack of enthusiasm. “And I’ve brought this—” she put the loaf down on the table. “I’m being absolutely crazy after what I said about losing weight, but I’m
starving
, and I’m going to have some of it to eat now for my lunch! Will you go shares so that I don’t have a chance of eating too much?”

“I don’t honestly think I want—” he paused and gave his whole attention to the loaf. “It looks and smells good, doesn’t it?”

Ten minutes later they were sitting companionably side by side on deck, eating hunks of bread—John had insisted that you didn’t cut slices off a loaf like that. You just pulled pieces off. Then you put lashings of butter on and topped up with cheese.

With amusement that had an odd thread of tenderness in it, Rosamund found that she needn’t have worried about putting on weight because, though he didn’t seem to realise it, John was greedily tucking into the lion’s share. And for the first time in her life she discovered how satisfying it is to see a man enjoying his food, particularly when one has been the means of providing it. And, of course, when one happens to be—interested in the man concerned.

They finished the meal with coffee, talking in a desultory way for a time, and then fell silent until suddenly John said bitterly:

“It’s no damn good, Rosamund! I might as well tear up everything I’ve written! Going through it this morning, I realised that it’s not only too long. There are far too many characters. It’s clumsy, unwieldy—utterly impossible!”

Rosamund leaned forward and disentangled a stem of grass from the buckle of her sandal with quite unnecessary care and without looking at him, she asked tentatively:

“John, what made you decide to be a playwright?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“An exaggerated opinion of my own cleverness, I suppose”

“No, I didn’t mean what made you decide that it should be a
play
?”

“Because I—here, what are you getting at?” he demanded suspiciously.

Rosamund hugged her knees and rested her chin on them.

“Did you see Frederick Dane’s play ‘Guessing Game' last winter?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. But what’s that got to do with it?” John asked impatiently.

“It might have quite a lot,” she answered seriously. “So please, John, tell me what you thought of it.” _

“Oh—I don’t know.” He frowned as if making an effort to remember. “Yes, I do. It hung together all right and yet by the end of the first act I began to feel—” he paused, the frown deepening.

“Yes?” Rosamund urged encouragingly.

“As if—somehow or other, I had missed something vital,” he said slowly. “Something that would have made the situation—and the cast—seem real. As it was, they were only two-dimensional.”

"Yes,” Rosamund agreed eagerly. “That was just how I felt! And it made me wonder if the book from which the play was written was as wonderful as I’d thought. So I read it again. And it still was.”

She felt rather than saw that John had grown very still and tense and she waited, holding her breath.

“What are you trying to tell me, Rosamund?” he asked at last in a queer, strained way.

“Just that I don’t think a really first-class book will of a necessity make an equally good play.” Purposely she spoke slowly, deliberately, so that he had time to realise that every word she said was important. “There’s so much more
room
in a book than there is in a play, isn’t there, because there isn’t the same time limit And when I real ‘Guessing Game’ again. I discovered that what they’d done was just to use the
bones
of the plot, highlighting the essential points. But, to me, what they had left out was what made the book live,” she explained earnestly.

“Do you mean you think that I—” he began slowly, and stopped short.