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one go on hoping for?—At our age? Do you know?’

Was this dark tumult life? And the sluggish dream of the wood Nirvana? She felt herself struggle, with herself, and, it seemed, against Captain Ingpen. But she would not attempt to evade him. That might involve her in some undignified mishap. She armed herself with what she could secure of cool sincerity. ‘One hopes to feel again the things one has felt; the things that have given life its value.’ She heard the words and they were lifeless; yet she had believed in them.

‘Ah. Yes; just so. But at our age—for you are as old as I am, I suppose—it’s rather idiotic, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps not. Perhaps not idiotic. There are always the grandchildren,’ her bitterness found. How much good, indeed, was Robin going to do her;—since Hester would never believe that she could do him any?’

‘Grandchildren? Have you grandchildren?’

‘Yes. I have a grandson; four years old.’

‘Really. That surprises me. You are not grandmotherly. But one forgets how obsolete the grandmother type has become. Grandchildren?’ he repeated. ‘Are they really worth hoping about?’

‘I think so.’