Jolyon had looked at her, and the sad whimsicality of his face impressed
her deeply.

"Well, my dear, I should like to get something out of death. I've been
looking into it a bit. But for the life of me I can't find anything that
telepathy, sub-consciousness, and emanation from the storehouse of this
world can't account for just as well. Wish I could! Wishes father
thought but they don't breed evidence." Holly had pressed her lips again
to his forehead with the feeling that it confirmed his theory that all
matter was becoming spirit--his brow felt, somehow, so insubstantial.

But the most poignant memory of that little visit had been watching,
unobserved, her stepmother reading to herself a letter from Jon. It
was--she decided--the prettiest sight she had ever seen. Irene, lost as
it were in the letter of her boy, stood at a window where the light fell
on her face and her fine grey hair; her lips were moving, smiling, her
dark eyes laughing, dancing, and the hand which did not hold the letter
was pressed against her breast. Holly withdrew as from a vision of
perfect love, convinced that Jon must be nice.

When she saw him coming out of the station with a kit-bag in either hand,
she was confirmed in her predisposition. He was a little like Jolly,
that long-lost idol of her childhood, but eager-looking and less formal,
with deeper eyes and brighter-coloured hair, for he wore no hat;
altogether a very interesting "little" brother!

His tentative politeness charmed one who was accustomed to assurance in
the youthful manner; he was disturbed because she was to drive him home,
instead of his driving her. Shouldn't he have a shot? They hadn't a car
at Robin Hill since the War, of course, and he had only driven once, and
landed up a bank, so she oughtn't to mind his trying. His laugh, soft
and infectious, was very attractive, though that word, she had heard, was
now quite old-fashioned. When they reached the house he pulled out a
crumpled letter which she read while he was washing--a quite short
letter, which must have cost her father many a pang to write.
"MY DEAR,

"You and Val will not forget, I trust, that Jon knows nothing of family
history. His mother and I think he is too young at present. The boy is
very dear, and the apple of her eye. Verbum sapientibus. your loving
father,
"J. F."

That was all; but it renewed in Holly an uneasy regret that Fleur was
coming.

After tea she fulfilled that promise