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certain charm in the restricted world, seeing herself as a Noah’s Ark figure set on her little circle of green, the circle moving with her as she went. There was beauty, too; the glossy branches of the oaks above were like those she had seen carved in deep relief on a dark, mysteriously lovely old door in Bourges; in Norah’s field an arabesque of hens were scattered like a spray of white chrysanthemums in a Chinese picture, and at the door the old-fashioned little banksia rose, sweet and apricot coloured, reminded her of her girlhood; one hardly ever saw these roses nowadays, and she nipped one off, shook out the rain that clogged its tiny petals and, while she waited for Bowditt, bent her face absently to its fragrance, a deep, almost a crafty fragrance, overwhelming her in memories of Aunt Janet and of Lockers, the old Sussex house under the Downs where she and her brothers and sisters, she and Clive, had spent so many happy holidays.

She saw Clive and Celia, the slender boy and girl—Celia, too, was related to Aunt Janet—playing tennis on the lawn while the downs grew grave and purple above the garden and Aunt Janet’s white cap appeared at the French window summoning them all in to dress for dinner. The roses grew against the wall round the window and she herself