s that she had loved
in them as children; nothing was blurred or twisted or overlaid.

Michael at six-and-twenty was beautiful and serious as she had foreseen
him. Frances knew that Michael had genius, and at other moments she was
proud of his genius; but at this particular moment, sitting beside her
friend and conscious of her jealousy, she was chiefly aware of his body.

Michael's body was quiescent; its beauty gave her a proud, but austere
and tranquil satisfaction. It was when she looked at her second son that
something caught at her breath and held it. She saw him as the lover
and bridegroom of Veronica. Her sense of his virility was terrible to
her and delightful.

Perhaps they were engaged already.

And Frances was sorry for Mrs. Jervis, who had borne no sons, who had
only borne one unattractive and unsatisfactory daughter. She used to be
sorry for her because Rosalind was pink and fat and fluffy; she was
sorry for her now because Rosalind was unsatisfactory. She was sorry for
Mrs. Norris because her boy could never grow up like Michael or Nicholas
or John. She was sorry for Mrs. Vereker because George, though he looked
all right when he was by himself, became clumsy and common at once
beside Michael and Nicholas and John. George was also in white flannels;
he played furiously and well; he played too furiously and too
consciously well; he was too damp and too excited; his hair became damp
and excited as he played; his cries had a Cockney tang.

Her arrogance nourished itself on these contrasts.

Mrs. Jervis looked wistfully at the young men as they played. She looked
still more wistfully at Dorothy.

"What do you do," she said, "to keep your children with you?"

"I do nothing," Frances said. "I don't try to keep them. I've never
appealed to their feelings for my own purposes, or taken advantage of
their affection, that's all.

"They know that if they want to walk out of the house to-morrow, and
stay out, they can. Nobody'll stop them."

There was a challenging, reminiscent glint in Mr. Jervis's eyes, and his
wife was significantly silent. Frances knew what they were thinking.

"Nicky," she said, "walked out; but he came back again as soon as he
was in trouble. Michael walks out and goes abroad every year; but he
comes back again. Dorothy walks out, but she's never dreamed of not
coming back again."

"Of course, if you aren't afraid of taking risks," said Mr. Jervis.

"I am afraid. But I've never sh