"Till he couldn't come back, you mean?"
"Yes. When I was in loco parentis that time, when Bill and Nora were on holiday, we went several times to the Gap, the children and I; to swim and have a picnic. And once when we were there Patrick said that the best way to die-I think he called it the lovely way-would be to swim out until you were too tired to go any farther. He said it quite matter-of-factly, of course. In those days it was-a mere academic matter. When I pointed out that drowning would still be drowning, he said: 'But you would be so tired, you see; you wouldn't care any more. The water would just take you. He loved the water."
She was silent for a little and then blurted out the thing that had been her private nightmare for years.
"I've always been afraid that when it was too late to come back he may have regretted."
"Oh, Bee, no!"
Bee's sidelong glance went to Nancy's beautiful, protesting face.
"Morbid. I know. Forget I said it."
"I don't know now how I could have forgotten," Nancy said, wondering. "The worst of pushing horrible things down into one's subconscious is that when they pop up again they are as fresh as if they had been in a refrigerator. You haven't allowed time to get at them to-to mould them over a little."
"I think a great many people have almost forgotten that Simon had a twin," Bee said, excusing. "Or that he has not always been the heir. Certainly no one has mentioned Patrick to me since the coming-of-age celebrations have been in the air."
"Why was Patrick so inconsolable about his parents' death?"