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such a way that he knew would bring her pride to the rescue of her hurt. And how could he know that? How did it come about that he was so sure she’d keep a stiff upper lip and have the courage to face her disappointment? Why, because he himself had taught her to do just that!
    “Everybody’s got their own troubles, Fen,” he’d explained. “And while one ought to be willing to help other people with theirs, if that’s possible, it seems a pity to me to multiply the grief of the world by passing round your share for others to suffer from. Share your happiness by all means, but keep the rest to yourself.”
    Fenella sighed deeply, and realised for the first time that one of the boatmen had finished swabbing out his little craft and had now come up the granite steps on to the quay. He was, in fact, standing so closely in front of Fenella that it was clear he had something to say to her.
    It was Tom Polwyn who stood there, a big, hulking figure whom Fenella had never liked very much—though that might have been partly because he was to some degree or other related to Miss Prosser.
    “Good morning, Tom,” she said briskly, sliding to her feet. “Is there something you want?”
    “Like to ask ’ee a question, Miss Fenella,” he replied in a husky voice.
    “Yes?” Fenella said in a far from encouraging way.
    “About that chap off’n th' divin’ boat,” Tom began ingratiatingly.
    “Which chap?” Fenella asked impatiently.
    “Th’ chap as ye walked along th’ cliff with,” Tom elaborated, an unpleasantly knowing expression on his face. “Friend o’ yours, miss?”
    Fenella stiffened. Fairhaven, like most remote places, was a hotbed of gossip and one just had to put up with it, but that in so short a time the news that she had walked along the cliff path with Martin Adair had already reached Tom in the harbour was really too much!
    “Whether he’s a friend of mine or not is no business of yours, Tom Polwyn,” she told him frigidly. “And now, if you’ll kindly let me pass—”
    But Tom didn’t budge, and since to try to dodge past him would not only have been undignified but also probably futile since Tom was a very broad, solid man, Fenella simply stood her ground in silence.
    Tom smiled ingratiatingly.
    “Now, Miss Fenella, don’t ’ee take offence when none’s meant! T’was only in my mind that if the gen’leman were a friend of yours, I might save’m a bit o' trouble! ” And again that unpleasant smile.
    Fenella shrugged her shoulders.
    “If you’ve anything of any importance to say, please do so as quickly as possible,” she requested coldly.
    “Well, seein’ I'm doin’t a favour, as ’ee might say, I’d 'a thought—” Tom grumbled, and then, hearing footsteps behind him, turned quickly.
    Mr. Phillips the Quaymaster was walking towards them, and realising that if she wished, Fenella could complain about his behaviour, he went on hurriedly. “It’s just this, miss. That chap, ’e asks too many questions! Ay, that ’e does! And—” he paused impressively, even threateningly, “us don’t like that, Miss Fenella. So what I thought was—if ’e’s a friend o' yours, will ’ee tell 'im—” he broke off as the Quaymaster drew up level with them, backed away and sheepishly lifted a finger in salute.
    Fenella gave a sigh of relief, smiled at Mr. Phillips, exchanged a few words with him, and hurried back up Fore Street.
    This time she took the shorter route by the road, but even so, she hurried so much that she was breathless by the time she reached Lyon House.
    Mrs. Trevose and Anthony were sitting side by side in the shade of a big tree. Both exclaimed at Fenella’s flushed face. Anthony got up and insisted on her having his chair while he went in to get her a cool drink. She thanked him, but added urgently:
    “Please come back as quickly as you can, Anthony, because there’s something I want to ask you about—”
    He nodded without comment as he went off, but Fenella