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and traditions, shrank from hateful public rendings; but Hester had walked away; and that ghost at the window had no power over the present. Why should not beautiful things grow up where old things had been blasted?

‘I won’t wait for them,’ she said. ‘I would really rather walk back on this lovely evening, and I must tell the maids that Celia is dining.—Won’t you come too, Norah?—The hill over The Crofts, you mean?’

‘Yes. The sunset is lovely from up there. No; I won’t dine, thank you so much.—I’ve masses of letters to write and Celia loves a tête-à-tête with you.—It’s rather wonderful to see everything turning out so well, isn’t it? You were right and I was wrong about that, do you remember? Celia and Hester seem really to have taken a fancy to one another,’ said Norah. ‘And little Robin calls her Aunt Celia.—She was very much touched.’

‘Darling Celia.—Do you remember Sonia, in “War and Peace”? Like Celia rather. The destined aunt type. Perhaps that is what we must resign ourselves to for her.’ Monica got up as she spoke and moved about the room, remembering as though from far away that there were still steps to be taken and clues to follow before the key was in her hand; the key to set Clive free.