Esmé swung round from the dressing-table, saw the book in her sister’s hand, and coloured warmly.
“A man who was staying at the Zuurberg.”
“And he gave you this book?”
“Yes—to read in the train.”
The two sisters looked at one another. Rose waited for further information, but it was not forthcoming. She laid the book down, and Esmé resumed brushing her hair. It was pretty hair, soft and wavy. The older woman watched operations for a moment or so, then she went forward, took the brush from the girl’s hand, and brushed it for her.
“Tell me about him,” she urged.
“There is nothing to tell,” Esmé replied. “He was nice to me while I was there; that is all.”
The finality of the phrase struck on her own ears desolately. That was all. Her romance had begun and ended with her holiday.
Rose made no comment. The scrappy information had illumined things for her surprisingly. She felt suddenly very tender towards her sister. She put the hair back from her face and kissed her gently.
“You are just sweet. You look such a child with your hair like that,” she said.