"Who is living in Dovelands Cottage now, Flamby?" he asked. "I believe Nevin told me that it had been sold."
Flamby turned aside to take up a box of cigarettes.
"Don bought it," she said slowly. "I don't know why he didn't want you to know, but he asked me not to tell you."
Paul continued to stare at the picture, until Flamby spoke again. "Will you have a cigarette?" she asked, her voice low and monotonous.
"No, thank you very much."
"I can make coffee in a minute."
"Please don't think of it."
Through the little mirror immediately below the pastel Flamby studied Paul covertly. He had aged; all the beauty of his face resided now in his eyes. Two years had changed him from a young and handsome man to one whose youth is left behind, and who from the height of life's pilgrimage looks down sadly but unfalteringly into a valley of shadows. He turned to her.
"Mrs. Chumley?"
"I was with her this morning. She is staying for a while at the cottage. I think she is nearly broken-hearted. From the time that his mother died, when Don was very little, Mrs. Chumley looked after him until he went away to school. You know, don't you? But she is so brave. I wish," said Flamby, her voice sunken almost to a whisper, "I wish I could be as brave ..." She sat down on the settee, biting her lower lip and striving hard to retain composure.