ed, counselled and provided for an eccentric husband and a
turbulent family, shouldering the cares of all, budgeting, nursing and
educating on an income which slipped unrewardingly away until she
assumed control. She had learned Greek and Latin to help the boys with
their home-work and had trained their characters in an austere school of
aggressive Puritanism. If she were a little intolerant, at least she
reared her children to a lofty sense of honour, a cold chastity of life
and speech and a fierce refusal to compromise where truth or personal
reputation was concerned. Thanks to her, three boys and one girl were
now able to fend for themselves; Sybil, factotum and amanuensis to her
father ever since she had learned to read, could support herself
anywhere; Geoff was firmly on his feet in the Navy, Basil had passed
into the Civil Service a few weeks before the outbreak of war. Lady Lane
was justly content with her children; of Eric, whom she had kept alive
when the doctors despaired of him, she was justly proud.

"Come into the drawing-room," she said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.
"I've got a fire there."

"Nothing's changed," said Eric wonderingly.

Lashmar Mill-House, for all its size, contained hardly more than two
rooms on the ground-floor; a vast, book-lined study for Sir Francis, an
equally vast living-room for the rest of the family and, between them, a
furtive, dark rectangle where they hurried through their meals. Eric had
begged for years to have the back wall removed from the hall to make an
adequate dining-room, but his mother had grown middle-aged in a
familiar compass and did not care to be told by him too explicitly how
the house should be run and improved. In the moment of arrival Eric was
too much pleased with his welcome to be critical.

"You look tired," she said, holding his face to the light. "Tell me what
you've been doing all this while. You've become a great celebrity,
Eric."

"There's nothing much to tell. I've been doing a lot of work, meeting a
lot of people. . . . It's been rather fun. . . ."

As soon as she had put away the car, Sybil joined them and stood with
her back to the fire and her hands in the pockets of a short tweed
skirt, staring idly at her own small feet in their brown stockings and
thick brogues and rousing herself with an abrupt jerk of the head when
she wanted to intervene with a question.

"You were _barely_ civil, when I rang you up the other night," she
interje