her?' he said vaguely. 'Oh, she's gone back to Rawsley. She never
was happy here. She went back as soon as pater died; she missed the tea
fights, you know, and Bethlehem and all that.'

'It must have been a shock to you when your father died.'

'Yes, I suppose it was. The old man and I didn't exactly hit it off but,
somehow--those things make you realise--'

'Yes, yes,' said Victoria sympathetically. The similarity of deaths
among the middle classes! Every woman in the regiment had told her that
'these things make you realise' when Dicky died. 'But what about you?
Are you still in--in cement?'

'In cement!' Jack's lip curled. 'The day my father died I was out of
cement. It's rather awful, you know, to think that my freedom depended
on his death.'

'Oh, no, life depends on death,' said Victoria smoothly. 'Besides, we
are members of one another; and when, like you, Jack, we are a minority,
we suffer.'

Holt looked at her doubtfully. He did not quite understand her; she had
hardened, he thought.

'No,' he went on, 'I've done with the business. They turned it into a
limited liability company a month ago. I'm a director because the others
say they must have a Holt in it; but directors never do anything, you
know.'

'And you are going to do like the charwoman, going to do nothing,
nothing for ever?'

'No, I don't say that. I've been writing--verses you know, and some
sketches.'

'Writing? You must be happy now, Jack. Of course you'll let me see them?
Are they published?'

'Yes. At least Amershams will bring out some sonnets of mine next
month.'

'And are you going to pass the rest of your life writing sonnets?'

'No, of course not. I want to travel. I'll go South this winter and get
some local colour. I might write a novel.'

His head was thrown back on the cushion, looking out upon the blue
southern sky, the bluer waters speckled as with foam by remote white
sails.

'You might give me a cigarette, Jack,' said Victoria. 'They're in that
silver box, there.'

He handed her the box and struck a match. As he held it for her his eyes
fastened upon the shapely whiteness of her hands, her pink polished
finger nails, the roundness of her forearm. Soft feminine scents rose
from her hair; he saw the dark tendrils over the nape of her neck. Oh,
to bury his lips in that warm white neck! His hand trembled as he lit
his own cigarette and Victoria marked his heightened colour.

'You'll come and see me often, Jack, wo