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recognized, had underlain all his urgency: ‘And it was just what Hester did see, Mummy.—That you must be missing me and that I couldn’t be really happy with you buried down here. It was all Hester’s idea, every bit of it. I’d never have thought it possible to sell the house and uproot ourselves like this and put it through so that you shouldn’t find out and stop us. It was Hester who did it all. She is like that when she makes up her mind to a thing. Nothing stops her. That was why I wanted her to be the one to tell you;—so that you should understand.’

Hester. It was Hester’s idea; or rather—for she did indeed understand—Hester had made him believe it hers. He loved her, no doubt; he had, no doubt, suffered in the thought of her loneliness—with even Jeremy gone; but it was not of her, it was of Hester, he was thinking; and what he was really longing for was that she should see and acknowledge and love Hester. He had sent Hester so that she might gain the full credit for her insight and generosity. Dust. Dust and ashes. The bright afternoon shrank to a shrivelled snake-skin before Monica’s eyes.

‘How dear of Hester!’ she said. Instinct upheld her. She found the fitting words. She kept her