“Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. ‘Is it worth it?’ he asked at last. So while he talked to this girl of work and freedom, his slightly protuberant eyes were noting the gracious balance of her limbs and body across the gate, the fine lines of her chin and neck. There was also a curious interview at a big hotel with a middle-aged, white-powdered woman, all covered with jewels and reeking of scent, who wanted a Companion. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. She made a quick movement, and the hand fell away.
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