CHAPTER VII — THE EXTRA GUEST

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      As Miss Corner had a sheltered garden, with a southern aspect, her strawberries were first in the neighbourhood to ripen. This was her signal to give the opening garden-party of the season. Directly she received her gardener's report, she sent out her invitations.

      There were no refusals, and even the Squire did the novelist the rare honour to be present. He was a big, burly man, both blustering and sentimental, who advertised his loyalty, during the War, by decorating his car with the Union Jack, and who erected grave-stones over the pets whose death had not caused him a pang. He had the moral support of the entire male population, while there was a full muster of ladies.

      Joan Brook stood by herself on the path beside the raised Kelway border, on purpose to watch the scene, for this form of typical country entertainment was new to her, and she wanted to see the village in its party frock. Everyone wore new summer finery, reserved for the occasion. The small tables dotted about the lawn displayed the dishes of strawberries, which gave the 'signature' to the party. An imported string-orchestra played 'Valses from Vienna', and the weather was perfect, with fountains of white cloud spouting up into a vivid blue sky.

      Miss Julia Corner, in pale pink chiffon, stenciled with enormous roses, and a flopping crinoline hat, felt the thrill of a successful hostess as she beamed on her guests. As far as she could estimate from her rough count of heads, nearly everyone had arrived. Her loud laughter rang out and her petals seemed to expand visibly in the warm air, as she gave the signal for the tea to be carried out on the lawns.

      The poor soul had no knowledge of an unbidden outsider—a dark, shapeless blur—which slunk outside the gate, awaiting its opportunity to steal inside.

      Joan, too, was unconscious of any shadow, or threat of impending trouble, as she lingered by the delphiniums and columbines, for her attention was held by Mrs. Perry. Although the doctor's wife looked, as usual, beautiful wreckage, it was clear that she possessed the essential quality of attraction, for most of the men were clustered around her. Even the Squire was indulging in a heavy flirtation, for which, afterwards, he would be furiously angry with the lady.

      Joan was disturbed by the approach of the doctor.

      "Admiring us?" he asked lightly.

      "I'm admiring your wife," replied Joan.

      "That's nice of you. She always manages to convey the impression of an Evelyn Brent adventuress, which is quite clever of her. The sad truth is, she concentrates exclusively on her babies."

      "Does she?" Joan's voice was so incredulous, as she remembered the sun-bathing episode, that she hastened to make amends. "No wonder," she added quickly. "They're perfect darlings. Aren't you lucky?"

      "Are we? I wonder. Insecurity is every parent's nightmare. Doctors go out of fashion."

      "But not here."

      "No." The doctor smiled. "I think I'm fairly dug-in here. You know, my family has lived in this place for centuries...But why are you perched up here, alone?"

      "To watch."

      "I understand. I'm also a spectator of the Divine Comedy. But—I should place you on the stage."

      Joan was slightly annoyed by the manner in which the doctor glanced across to the Rector, who—clad in clerical grey—was hurling himself through the different groups, rather like an animated version of Michelangelo's Sun being projected into Space.

      "If it comes to that," she remarked, "I'm not so sure that you are as passive as you seem."

      "Ah. I'm intelligent enough to recognise that for flattery. There is nothing so dull as a country G.P. He is only interesting when he stands in the Dock, on a capital charge."

      His detachment was so stressed that Joan tried to startle him into interest.

      "You mean murder?" she asked. "Of course, I don't want to boast, but I had a relative who was hanged. And not for something he didn't do, either. He murdered his wife."

      "Horrible."

      "Let's be modern, and call it rather too strong a dose of human nature...Different to this village." Joan laughed. "It's nearly Heaven on earth. Take one example. I'm here. The best people have never asked me to their parties before."

      "I'm glad you like us," said the doctor.

      "I do. And yet—I've a feeling I'm not sure of—of one person."

      Dr. Perry flashed her an interested glance.

      "Who?" he asked.

      Although indiscretion was Joan's special failing, instinct warned her it would be wiser not to utter a hint of treason against the queen of the village.

      But the doctor's eyes had followed hers, and he noticed that she was glancing at a group of ladies gathered near the gates. Miss Asprey had just arrived.

      "Who?" he repeated.

      "No one," replied Joan, in an effort to confuse the trail. "I was only talking in a general sort of way. All the people here are so marvellously kind that I sometimes wonder if they could be cruel. For instance, there's—there's Mrs. Scudamore. Her own marriage is perfect. Well, suppose I was a tarnished heroine, how would she treat me?"

      "She would be perfectly just."

      "I'm sure of it. But would she understand? Would she feel we were both women who loved our men, and there was nothing between us, but five minutes in some dirty Register Office?"

      "Perhaps not. Why should she understand the self-indulgence of a temptation to which she, herself, would never yield?"

      In spite of the chill in Dr. Perry's voice, Joan was satisfied with the success of her ruse.

      "Why, there's Miss Asprey," she cried innocently.

      The queen of the village walked slowly across, the lawn, like an actress taking the stage. She wore a sober grey gown, with white collar and cuffs, which suggested a Quakeress, until the fact emerged that the materials were soft dull satin and exquisite lace. It was her first public appearance since the episode of the letter, and she moved with poise and dignity, although she leaned upon a silver-headed cane.

      Her appearance was a signal for a demonstration of silent sympathy. There was a definite stir in her direction and she was overwhelmed with welcomes. Those who could not reach her, tried to catch her eye with their smiles. Only Joan, in her new spirit of criticism—stood outside the circle of her court.

      "Does an attack on your moral character make you limp?" she asked the doctor.

      "When you've lived here as long as Miss Asprey," replied the doctor, "you'll make the acquaintance of every drop of uric acid in your system. The 'Spout' is damp, and Miss Asprey suffers from sciatica. It's very brave of her to come...Shall we go and speak to her?"

      Joan followed the doctor rather reluctantly, for she remembered certain painful and breathless hours in the company of a tireless walker. There was no hint of muscular trouble about Miss Asprey on that occasion. A confused memory of drawing-room gossip swam into her brain.

      'I was whacked, while she was fresh. Did she suck my strength? Oh, idiot.'

      Although she shook off her sensational suspicion, the late entrance still struck her as staged to attract attention.

      But as she drew near enough to see Miss Asprey's face she was ashamed of her