'Theo,' she said, without looking towards the tall, slim form by the window, 'has changed.'
Brenda moved the curtain a little more to one side, so that the old wooden rings rattled on the pole. Then she leant her shoulder against the framework of the window, and turned her face towards the firelight. Her gentle gaze rested on the beautiful form gracefully reclining in the deep chair. She noted the easy repose of each limb, the proud poise of the golden head, and the clearcut profile showing white against the dingy background. There was no glamour in her eyes, such as would have blinded the judgment of nine men out of ten; but there was in its place the great tie of sisterly love.
Brenda, looking on that beauty, knew that it was the curse of her sister's life. Instead of envying her, she was mentally meting out pity and allowance.
'I suppose,' she said, without much encouragement in her manner, 'that we have all changed in one way or another.'
'But Theo has changed in more than one way.'
'Has he?'
'Yes. His manner is quite different from what it used to be; and he seems self-absorbed—less energetic, less sympathetic.'
Brenda did not answer at once. She turned slightly, and looked out of the window, resting her fingers upon the old wooden framework.
'You see,' she suggested, 'he has other interests in life now. He is a great man, and has ambition. It is only natural that he should be absorbed in his own affairs.'
Mrs. Huston raised her small foot, and rested the heel of her slipper on the brass fender, while she contemplated the diminutive limb with some satisfaction.