They walked on a few steps, and then there came a sound of whirring in the sky. It was a sound new to Oxford, but which had lately become frequent. All three looked up. An aeroplane was skimming low over steeples, towers, and ancient chimney stacks, going home to Port Meadow, like a bird going home to roost at the approach of night. It was going safely. The pilot was only learning, playing with air, overcoming it with youthful keenness and light-heartedness. They could see his little solitary figure sitting at the helm. Later on he would play no more; the air would be full of glory, and horror—over in France.
The Warden sighed.
When they reached the Lodgings they went into the gloom of the dark panelled hall. The portraits on the walls glowered at them. The Warden put up the lights and looked at the table for letters, as if he expected something. There was a wire for him; more business, but not unexpected.
"I have to go to Town again," he said. "A meeting and other education business."
"Ah!" said Lady Dashwood. She caught at the idea, and her eyes followed the figure of May Dashwood walking upstairs. When May turned out of sight she said: "Do you mean now?"
"No, to-morrow early," he said. "And I shall be back on Saturday."
Lady Dashwood seated herself on a couch; her letters were in her hand, but she did not open them. Her eyes were fixed on her brother.
"Can you manage somehow so that I can speak to Gwendolen alone?" he asked. "I am dining in Hall, but I shall be back by half-past nine."
Lady Dashwood felt her cheeks tingle. "Yes, I will manage it, if it is inevitable." She dwelt lingeringly upon the word "inevitable."
"Thank you," said the Warden, and he turned and walked slowly upstairs. Very heavily he walked, so Lady Dashwood thought, as she sat listening to his footsteps. Of course it was inevitable. If vows are forgotten, promises are broken, there is an end to "honour," to "progress," to everything worth living for!