Violet was crying softly, lying back in the depths of a great arm-chair.
"Poor Alex! I never guessed Malden Road was like that. Why did she go there? Oh, poor Alex!"
"You were nicer to her than any of us, Violet," said Archie gruffly. "She was awfully fond of you, wasn't she, and of the little kid?"
Barbara, hard and self-contained, gazed round the familiar room. For a moment it seemed to her that they were all children again, sent down from the nursery by old Nurse, on Lady Isabel's "At Home" afternoon.
Her eyes met those of Cedric, who had taken up his stand against the mantelpiece, in his hand his glasses, which he was shaking with little, judicial jerks.
"Oh, Cedric," said Barbara with a sudden catch in her voice.
"Don't you remember – Alex was such a pretty little girl!"
London, 1917.
Bristol, 1918.
THE END