She caught an inflection in his voice of more than a mere remark. He must be appallingly lonely. He saw few people but Perdita, and in her visits neither of them knew what to say and struggled with platitudes, silences and then sudden rushes of words. He was almost relieved when she went, and yet was sharply aware of his isolation and overwhelming sense of despair and helplessness.

His brother, Athol, was what was known as a "muscular Christian"—a man given to unnatural ebullience, overbearingly vigorous views about health and morality, and an optimism which at times was beyond enduring. He refused to acknowledge Gabriel's pain or attempt the slightest understanding of it. Perhaps it frightened him, because his philosophy had no answer for it. It was something beyond anyone's control, and Athol's sense of safety came from his conviction that man was, or could and should become, master of his life.

"You must know India better than most writers," she said, forgetting the linen for a moment and looking at Gabriel, trying to read the expression in his eyes.

"Parts of it," he agreed, watching her equally intently, also seeking to judge her reaction, what he could tell her with some hope she would not be overwhelmed or distressed by events beyond her comprehension. "Are you interested in India?"

She was not particularly, but she was interested in him. She moderated the truth. "I am in current affairs, especially military ones."

His eyes clouded with doubt. "Military ones, Miss Latterly?" There was a hint of doubt in his voice now, as if he mistrusted her motives, fearing she was accommodating him. He must be very sensitive to condescension. "Have you a brother in the army?"

She smiled that he automatically assumed it would not be a lover. He must see her as too old for such a thing, or not comely enough. It was unthinking. He would not mean to hurt.

"No, Lieutenant, my elder brother is in business, and my younger brother was killed in the Crimea. My interest in military history is my own."

He knew he had been clumsy, even though he was not sure how. It was there in his cheeks and his eyes.

She realized how little she had told him of herself, and perhaps Athol had been equally unforthcoming. Possibly he considered her only a superior servant, and as long as her references were adequate, everything else was superfluous. One did not make friends of servants, especially temporary ones.

She smiled at him. "I have strong opinions about army medical matters, most of which have got me into trouble since I returned to England."

"Returned?" he said quickly. "From where?"

"The Crimea. Did Mr. Sheldon not tell you?"