over her forehead, looked dull and colourless, though some
greasy matter had evidently been used with a view of producing a
becoming gloss, and on it perched an antique bonnet, adorned with black
pendants that rattled paralytically one against the other.

And there was nothing in Mrs. Nixon's face to correspond with the
imaginary picture that Darnell had made of her. She was sallow,
wrinkled, pinched; her nose ran to a sharp point, and her red-rimmed
eyes were a queer water-grey, that seemed to shrink alike from the light
and from encounter with the eyes of others. As she sat beside his wife
on the green garden-seat, Darnell, who occupied a wicker-chair brought
out from the drawing-room, could not help feeling that this shadowy and
evasive figure, muttering replies to Mary's polite questions, was almost
impossibly remote from his conceptions of the rich and powerful aunt,
who could give away a hundred pounds as a mere birthday gift. She would
say little at first; yes, she was feeling rather tired, it had been so
hot all the way, and she had been afraid to put on lighter things as
one never knew at this time of year what it might be like in the
evenings; there were apt to be cold mists when the sun went down, and
she didn't care to risk bronchitis.

'I thought I should never get here,' she went on, raising her voice to
an odd querulous pipe. 'I'd no notion it was such an out-of-the-way
place, it's so many years since I was in this neighbourhood.'

She wiped her eyes, no doubt thinking of the early days at Turnham
Green, when she married Nixon; and when the pocket-handkerchief had done
its office she replaced it in a shabby black bag which she clutched
rather than carried. Darnell noticed, as he watched her, that the bag
seemed full, almost to bursting, and he speculated idly as to the nature
of its contents: correspondence, perhaps, he thought, further proofs of
Uncle Robert's treacherous and wicked dealings. He grew quite
uncomfortable, as he sat and saw her glancing all the while furtively
away from his wife and himself, and presently he got up and strolled
away to the other end of the garden, where he lit his pipe and walked to
and fro on the gravel walk, still astounded at the gulf between the real
and the imagined woman.

Presently he heard a hissing whisper, and he saw Mrs. Nixon's head
inclining to his wife's. Mary rose and came towards him.

'Would you mind sitting in the drawing-room, Edward?' she murmured.