the
tradition of brave life, and it made her want to cry to see how
crowsfeet of pleasure came at the corners of their eyes when they looked
at Richard, and how they liked to slap his strong back with their rough
hands, which age was making delicate with filigree of veins and
wrinkles. And she could see, too, that they liked her. They looked at
her as if they thought she was pretty, and teased her about the
Votes-for-Women button she was wearing, but quite nicely.

When they were standing under the dark eaves of the boathouse, looking
up at the gleaming tawny sides of the motor-launch, one of the old men
pointed at the golden letters that spelt "Gwendolen" at the prow, and
said, "Well, Yaverland, I suppose you'll have forgotten who she is these
days." Another added: "He'd better, if he's going to marry a
Suffragette." And all broke into clear, frosty laughter. She cried out
in protest, and told them that Suffragettes were not really fierce at
all, and that the newspapers just told a lot of lies about them, and
that anyway it was only old-fashioned women who were jealous, and they
listened with smiling, benevolent deference, which she enjoyed until her
eyes lighted on Richard, and she saw that he was more absorbed in her
effect on his friends than in herself.

For a moment she felt as lonely as she had been before she knew him, and
she looked towards the boat and stared at the reflection of the group in
the polished side and wished that one of the dim, featureless shapes she
saw there had been her mother, or anyone who had had a part in her old
life in Edinburgh. She turned back to the men and brought the
conversation to an end with a little laughing shake of the head, giving
them the present of an aspect of her beauty to induce them to let her
mind go free. Again she felt something that her commonsense forbade to
be quite fear when he did not notice for a minute that she was wistfully
asking him to take her away. It was all right, of, course.

When they had said good-bye to the happy old men and were walking along
the promenade, he asked: "What was the matter, darling? Didn't you like
them? They're really very good old sorts"; and understood perfectly when
she answered: "I know they are, but I don't want anybody but you." There
was indeed vehemence in his reply: "Yes, dear, we don't want anybody but
ourselves, do we?" Undoubtedly there was a change in the nature of the
attention he was giving her. Instead of concentra