’ Roding looked struck. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. Melusine dashed them away, but they kept on coming. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. “How are you feeling?” She asked.
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