Miss Silver was putting the little pink coatee together. She looked up from it to say,

“Did he talk of doing so?”

“It upset me very much,” said Esther Field. “I was ill, you know, and so he had all the papers to go through. There were some letters-from a very foolish girl. I am afraid she may have fancied herself in love with Pen, and he would be too kind to snub her. He always said it was like measles-it ran its course and they got over it.”

“It happened on more than one occasion, then?”

“Oh, yes,” said Esther Field comfortably. “It was just a kind of hero-worship. But I couldn’t get Alan to see how cruel it would be to publish the letters. People are so ready to believe the worst. And in this case-well, Alan didn’t tell me, but I can guess who the girl may have been, and it would have been very, very unkind indeed. Pen ought not to have kept the letters. I didn’t know that he had. How could I? It was very careless of him. It would have given dreadful pain to- to her family if they had been published-terrible pain.”

Miss Silver regarded her gravely.

“You say, ‘to her family.’ But what about herself?”

“That is just it,” said Esther Field. “She is dead. She died ten years ago. It was a terrible shock to Pen.”

“An accident?” enquired Miss Silver.

Esther Field gazed at her doubtfully.

“Oh, I don’t know-I hope so-I do hope so. Oh, yes, it must have been. She was bathing, and she swam out too far. She must have got a cramp, and she was drowned. Such a tragedy!”

Miss Silver said, “Yes indeed.”

Mrs. Field sighed.

“It doesn’t do to think of these old sad things, does it? One needs all one’s courage for the present. Poor, poor Alan!”

They went back to the house almost immediately. Miss Silver having changed into the dark blue artificial silk which Ethel Burkett had persuaded her to buy at Wildings-“Such good style, Auntie, and it will last you for years”-descended to the drawing-room, still shaded by sun-blinds but now admitting a pleasant breeze. She was, as always, meticulously neat-her hair with its deep Edwardian fringe in front, close coils behind, and an overall restraining net; the locket in massive gold with the raised and intertwined initials of her parents and the treasured locks of their hair; the black lisle stockings of her invariable summer wear; and the glacé shoes with their beaded toes. That the whole effect was that of someone who had stepped out of an album of family photographs, she was naturally unaware.

In the drawing-room she found only Mrs. Trevor, turning the leaves of a book in which she did not appear to take any interest. No one could have presented a greater contrast- her hair compelled into the latest style, her dress as near to the last vagary of fashion as collaboration with a local dressmaker could contrive. The result, if not altogether successful, undoubtedly ministered to her morale. Since Miss Silver would be someone to talk to, she was pleased to see her.

Esther Field had also gone to her room to change. As she took off her grey linen for the old black crêpe-de-chine which she had put in because it was cool and comfortable, she was thankful that custom no longer prescribed the mourning of an older day. She remembered Pen’s mother telling her that when their father died she and her sisters wore black with crape on it for six months, plain black for another six, after which a white tucker might be added and a gradual progress made through black and white to grey, and in the last three months of the second year to purple, mauve, and heliotrope. Nowadays people as often as not just wore what they had, not even avoiding the brighter colours. She had been rather shocked herself at seeing a young widow in crimson corduroy slacks. The old observances were oppressive, but there was a happy mean, and in the case of anything so dreadful as a murder one neither had the inclination to go shopping nor to wear anything that would attract attention.

She slipped the old black dress over her head and felt refreshed. The stuff was cool against her skin. Her talk with Miss Silver had done her good. It had been a relief to speak of the things which had lain so heavily upon her heart. It was sometimes easier to talk to a stranger who brought no emotions of her own to cloud the issue. Looking back, she only hoped she had not said too much. All that about Pen and Irene-she had never spoken of it to anyone before. Not that there had been anything to speak about-just hero-worship on her side and kindness on his. And perhaps the letters Alan wanted to publish were from someone quite different. Pen was always getting letters from women, and they meant so little, so very little-she knew that. She hadn’t thought about Irene-not at first-but now she couldn’t get away from her. It was almost as if she was there in the room, or as if at any moment a door might open and let her through. There was nothing frightening in the thought, only the gentle sadness into which all grief must turn as time goes by. She stood for a while by the window with the breeze coming in and let the gentle sadness have its way. Poor, poor Irene, so lovely, so young, and so tragically dead. Whatever foolish things she had written, no one would ever read them now. As soon as all this dreadful business about Alan was over she would go through the papers herself and see that the letters were burned.

Downstairs in the shaded drawing-room Maisie Trevor was indulging in her favourite occupation. Give her a receptive and sympathetic listener and she could be perfectly happy. This she now enjoyed in Miss Silver, and the stream of anecdote and reminiscence never flagged.

Miss Silver, casting on stitches for the first of a pair of bootees to match the little pink coat, was most gratifyingly attentive. Her original remark of “You and Mrs. Field and Lady Castleton are such very old friends,” had, as it were, released the waters, and they now flowed without pause or stay. Miss Silver was able to count her stitches very comfortably during some recollections of Carmona’s parents.

“George Leigh was really the handsomest man! Carmona isn’t anything special, but he was. All the girls were in love with him.” She laughed self-consciously. “I know I was. Now that it’s so long ago, I don’t mind saying so. But it was Adela he was in love with-never had eyes for anyone else until she turned him down for Geoffrey Castleton who was a much better match, and he went off and married Monica on the rebound. I don’t know what he saw in her after Adela. She was rather sweet of course, but Adela had everything!”

Miss Silver began to knit the first row of the bootee.

“When people have so much, it is sometimes a little overpowering,” she said.

Maisie Trevor’s blue eyes widened.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever thought of it like that, but I suppose it might be. Of course, there was something hard about Adela. Perhaps it was doing so many things and doing them all so dreadfully well. She did, you know. Dancing, tennis, swimming, fencing-they all seemed to come to her so easily. I remember someone saying to me-I don’t remember if it was Jennifer Rae or Mary Bond, or it might have been Josephine Carstairs, but we were all in the same set and it might have been any of them-only not Esther, because she never said anything unkind about anyone-but it would have been one of the others-Oh, where was I?”

“Something that was said about Lady Castleton.”

“Oh, yes! And now I am pretty sure it was Jean Elliot- because she was terribly in love with George Leigh, and frightfully jealous of Adela. Well, Jean said-I am really practically sure it was Jean-‘You can’t do such a lot and do it all so well and have much time left for the ordinary human feelings.’ And in a way that was true. She didn’t get fond of people, or have crushes, or fall in love like the rest of us did-she just had a raving success, and then made the most suitable marriage that came along. Geoffrey was in the Diplomatic, you know. He was supposed to have a big future, but he died young, and she never married again. She didn’t really care for people- only for Causes. She had a very big job in the war, and she speaks in public, and takes part in debates on the wireless- all that sort of thing. But as to people, I believe the only one she was ever really fond of was Irene.”