Eton? No–young Jolyon had been there. Winchester, the Monts’ school? Not there either, if he could help it. Harrow was handy; or his own old school–Marlborough? Perhaps he would see him play at Lord’s. Another fifteen years before Kit could play at Lord’s! Well–something to look forward to, something to hold on for. If you hadn’t that, you felt old, and if you FELT old, you WERE old, and the end soon came. How well that woman had worn! She–! There were his pictures too; take them up more seriously. That Freer Gallery! Leave them to the nation, and your name lived–much comfort in THAT! She! SHE would never die!
A crack of light on the wall close to the door.
“Asleep, Dad?”
So Fleur had remembered to come and have a look at him!
“How are you now, dear?”
“All right; tired. How was the opera?”
“Middling.”
“I’ve told them to call us at seven. We’ll breakfast on the train.”
Her lips touched his forehead. If–if that woman–but never–never once–never of her own accord–!
“Good night,” he said. “Sleep well!”
The light on the wall narrowed and was gone! Well! He was drowsy now. But, in this house–Shapes–Shapes! Past–present–at the piano–at his bedside–passing–passing by–and there, behind them, the great bronze-hooded woman, with the closed eyes, deep sunk in everlasting–profound–pro–! And from Soames a gentle snore escaped.

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