Gladys and I had lingered behind the others, but at our approach Sylvia jumped down from the car and ran towards us. Her movements were astonishingly light and quick, and when I amused an idle moment in trying to fit her with a formula I decided that her veins must be filled with radium. Possibly the description conveys nothing to other people; it exactly expresses the feeling that her mobile face, quick movements of body and passionate nature inspired in me. Later on I remember the Seraph pointed to the tremendous mental and physical energy of her father and brothers, asking how a slight girl's frame could contain such fire without eruption.
Eruptions there certainly were, devastating and cataclysmic....
"How are you, my child?" she exclaimed, catching Gladys by the hands. "And where's the wicked uncle?"
My niece indicated my presence, and I bowed.
"You?" Sylvia took me in with one rapid glance, and then held out a hand. "But you look hardly older than Phil."
"I feel even younger," I began.
"Face massage," Culling murmured.
"A good conscience," I protested.
"Why did you have to leave England?" he retorted.
It was the first time I had heard it suggested that my exile was other than voluntary. I attempted no explanation as I knew Culling would outbid me. Instead, we gathered silently round the car and watched Philip attempting with much seriousness to allot seats among an excessive population that spent its time criticising and rejecting his arrangements.