The trouble was strictly confined to the Thesigers' house. From the tennis-lawns under the high walls of other gardens there came shouts of girls and of young men at play.
Presently Viola came to me. She held her head if anything higher than usual, and the expression of her face was out of keeping with the trouble in the air. But as she came nearer I saw that this gay face was white, its tissue had a sort of sick smoothness, and there were dark smears under her eyes.
The poor child had paid her tribute to the Trouble.
She said, "It is good of you to come. Did you mind awfully?"
I said, of course I didn't. She smiled again, the little white, blank smile she had for me in those days, and I asked her what had happened.
She said, "Everything's happened. It's been awful."
Her smile took on significance—the whole wild irony of disaster. Then she said, "They know."
"All of them? Your brother?"
"No. Not Reggie. He got away in time. They won't tell him. They won't even tell Bertie. They'll never talk about it. But they know."
I said, "Supposing they do know—as long as other people don't—"