The widow shrugged her shoulders.
'We must not get into the habit,' she suggested, 'of taking it for granted that every action of Theo's means that.'
'He lives for war,' said the girl wearily as she bent over her book with decision.
Mrs. Wylie worked on in silence. She had no desire to press the subject, and Brenda's statement was undeniable.
They now returned to their respective occupations, but Brenda knew that at times her companion's eyes wandered from the work towards her own face. Mrs. Wylie was evidently thinking actively—not passively, as was her wont. The result was not long in forthcoming.
'My dear,' she said energetically, 'I have been thinking. Let us go down to Wyl's Hall.'
Brenda pondered for a few seconds before replying. It was the first time that there had been any mention of the old Suffolk house since its master's sudden death. Mrs. Wylie had never crossed the threshold of this, the birthplace of many Wylies (all good sailors and true men), since she returned in the Hermione to Wyvenwich a childless widow. All this Brenda knew, and consequently attached some importance to the suggestion. During the last six months they had lived on in an unsettled way from day to day. Both had, perhaps, been a little restless. There was a want of homeliness about the chambers in Suffolk Mansions; not so much, perhaps, in the rooms themselves as in the stairs, the common door with its civil porter, and the general air of joint proprietorship. What we call vaguely 'home' is nothing but a combination of small things with their individual associations. The milkman with his familiar cry, the well-known bang of the front door, the creaking of the wooden stairs; such trifles as these make up our home, form the frame in which our life is placed, and each little change is noted. The present writer first realized the true meaning of death by noting the absence of a small vase from the nursery mantelpiece. It was a trifling little thing of brown ware, shaped quaintly, and round the bowl of it was a little procession of Egyptian figures following each other in stately angularity. One day it was broken, and I have never forgotten the feeling with which I first looked at the mantelpiece and sought in vain the familiar little jar.
To women these small associations are, perhaps, dearer than they are to us men. No doubt they love to be known and greeted by their neighbours, rich or poor, while we are often indifferent. The want of human sympathy, of human interest and mutual aid is the most prominent feature in town life. Men live and die, rejoice and grieve, laugh and weep almost under the same roof, and never share their laughter or mingle their tears. Faces may grow familiar, but hearts remain estranged, because perforce each man must fight for himself on the pavement, and there is no time to turn aside and lend a helping hand.
Brenda did not lose sight of the possibility that Mrs. Wylie might be longing for the familiar faces and pleasant voices of the humble dwellers in Wyvenwich; but the proposal to return to Wyl's Hall was apparently unpremeditated, and therefore the girl doubted its sincerity.
'Not on my account?' she inquired doubtfully, without looking up.