spare dignity of his figure, his fine eyes, the
black and white contrast of his body so that his cheeks, his hands,
seemed almost to shine against the faded air. It is certain that they
recognized at once some common ground so that they met as though they
had known one another for many years. The old minor caught for a moment
the fine gravity and silence of his approach to her as he waited for her
to greet him.

But before she could speak to him the door had opened and Margaret
Craven entered. In her gravity, her silence, she seemed at once to claim
kinship with them both. She had the black hair, the pale face, the sharp
outline of her mother. As she came quietly towards them her reserve was
wonderful, but there was tenderness in the soft colour of her eyes,
in the lines of her mouth that made her also beautiful. But beyond the
tenderness there was also an energy that made every move seem like an
attack. In spite of her reserve there was impatience, and Olva's first
judgment of her was that the last thing in the world that she could
endure was muddle; she shone with the clean-cut decision of fine steel.

Mrs. Craven spoke without rising from her chair.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Dune, Rupert has often told us about
you."

Margaret advanced to him and held out her hand. She looked him straight
in the eyes.

"We have met before, you know."

"I had not forgotten," he answered her gravely.

Then Rupert came in. It was strange how one saw now, when he stood
beside his mother and sister, that he had some of their quality of stern
reserve. He had always seemed to Olva a perfectly ordinary person of
natural good health and good temper, and now this quality that had
descended upon him increased the fresh attention that he had already
during these last two days demanded. For something beyond question the
Carfax affair must be held responsible. It seemed now to be the only
thing that could hold his mind. He spoke very little, but his white
face, his tired eyes, his listless conversation, showed the occupation
of his mind. It was indeed a melancholy evening.

To Olva, his nerves being already on edge, it was almost intolerable.
They passed from the drawing-room into a tiny dining-room--a room that
was as dingy and faded as the rest, with a dull red paper on the walls
and an old blue carpet. The old woman waited; the food was of the
simplest.

Mrs. Craven scarcely spoke at all. She sat with her eyes gravely fixed