"It's your birthday," she apologised. "Look, Clare, aren't they darlings? I know you hate the school fusses, but your own birthday is important. Must you go on writing? It ought to be a holiday. May I get vases? Clare, I've such heaps to tell you, heaps and heaps, only I can't if you stand and look at me from such a long way off. Won't you sit down and smell your lilacs and let me talk to you comfortably?"
With enormous daring she put her arm round Clare and drew her on to the sofa. Clare made no resistance, but she sat stiffly, unsupported, still smiling, her eyes glittering oddly. But the acquiescence was enough for Alwynne and she slid to the ground and sat there sorting her flowers, her face level with Clare's knee, radiant and fearless again.
"I wonder what you will say? It's about Roger."
Clare raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, Clare, don't you know? I wrote such a lot about him from Dene."
"I am to remember every detail of your epistles?"
Alwynne looked up quaintly—
"I suppose there is a good deal to wade through. There always seems so much to say to you. Do you really mind?"
"You remind me that I've letters to finish."
Alwynne looked at the clock in sudden alarm.