She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai. The boy would naturally attract the women, if the women were at all romantic. He took up his hat and went. Beyond that everything was nebulous. “My friends,” she said, “my dear friends, I am going to make the same answer to all of you—and that is perhaps you will say no answer at all. And it is not at all his affair.
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