They were at breakfast in the comfortable, shabby old morning-room at Buddesby. It was eight o’clock, and John had been afield for a couple of hours and had come back with his appetite sharp set.
They rose early at Buddesby. Constance had been at her housewifely duties since soon after six. Only Ellice had lain abed till the ringing of the breakfast-bell.
“A letter from Helen,” Constance said.
“Helen? Oh, she’s got to Starden then?” said John.
“And wants us to come over, dear.”
“Of course! We’ll go over next week some time. I’m busy now with—”
“It wouldn’t be kind not to go at once.”
“Who is Helen?” demanded Ellice. She looked fierce-eyed at Connie and then at John. “Who is she?” A tinge of colour came into her cheeks.
Connie saw it, and sighed a little. She knew this girl’s secret, knew it only too well. Many an hour of anxiety and worry it had caused her.
“Helen is our aunt by marriage,” she said.