"Dear old Trist," he said to himself. "I wonder what he is doing now, and if Ella makes him a good wife." And then, in the darkness, Tristram's handsome face and tender, humourous smile seemed to rise vividly before him. He could even hear his voice, clear and boyish, close to his ear—"Well played, old chappie—but it was a fluke for all that!''
"What on earth makes me think of Trist to-night?" Thorold asked himself, in some perplexity—but if he had only guessed the truth, he need not have puzzled himself: at that very moment, under the flickering, wind-blown gaslight, the brothers had passed each other without recognition, "like ships that pass in the night."
Thorold was trying to keep his umbrella steady, and took no notice of the passenger, who almost brushed his elbow—though he heard a small, childish voice say, "I don't like English rain, father." But the answer did not reach him.
"Aye, it is a bit saft, Bet—as the Scotch folk say. Creep under my Inverness cape, little one, and it will keep you dry." And then the little feet toiled on wearily and bravely in the darkness.
As Thorold let himself in with his latch-key, the parlour-door was opened hastily, and a woman's face peeped out anxiously. "Is that you, Thorold?" Then the man bit his lip with sudden irritation. Day after day, month after month, this was Joanna's never-varying formula—until "Is that you, Thorold?" seemed to be dinned into his brain like a monotonous sing-song.
"Who should it be" he longed to answer this evening. "What other fellow do you suppose would let himself in with my latch-key." But he controlled himself—Joanna had no sense of humour, and did not understand sarcasm. "Yes, here I am, as large as life," he returned, cheerfully. "But don't touch me, dear, for I am a trifle wet. Is supper ready? I will just change my coat, and be with you in a moment. Ah! Rabat-la-Koum," as a big, grey Persian cat rubbed against his legs, "so you are there, old mother of all the cats; and you are coming up with me, eh?"
"Don't forget to rub your feet, Thorold. There were marks on the landing carpet yesterday;" and then Joanna went back to pick up her knitting, feeling that she had properly welcomed her brother.
Joanna Chaytor had been a pretty girl, with that soft, rounded prettiness that belongs to youth; but at six-and-thirty she was faded and old-maidish. Doreen and Althea, who were several years older, scarcely looked their age, but Joanna had worn badly.
Disappointment and sorrow, and the small, carking cares of daily life, had washed away the pretty bloom from her cheeks, and had sharpened the lines of her face. Her brown hair was streaked with grey, and though her figure was still graceful and she dressed youthfully, strangers always thought she was at least forty-five.
Women are as old as they feel, people say, but in that case Joanna would have been seventy at least.