matter-of-factness of her brother, had touched the springs of her self-pity. At one step he had spanned all that had happened in the last twenty years. He was so entirely unchanged, while she—his eyes were as clear as ever, his fitness obvious at a glance, and his face scarcely lined. He represented all that she had lost, all that was sane and clean and wholesome. He reminded her of childish cricket, and nursery teas, and days on the river, and May Week, and clean young men in flannels. She had not met a man of his type since she had left her husband. She loved the faint scent of lavender that lingered in the fresh folds of the handkerchief he presently offered her. She wondered if it would be possible for her to go back with him, into the well-ordered life that he and his kind led, away from the shoddy women who had been her companions for years and the men who were rotten to the core.
"It has been a shock to you," Eric said. "I should have warned you."
She shook her head. It wasn't that. What it was she didn't feel capable of telling him now.
She wiped her eyes and cheeks recklessly with his handkerchief. Her make-up was ruined, and for the moment she didn't care, but presently at the sight of the well-filled restaurant she pulled
