Here Alice put down her husband’s letter with a sigh. She knew him to be wilful, for all his qualities; nevertheless she had hoped that he would heed her, concerning the risks of going about in the heat. And was it fanciful to detect in William’s description of the little Tartar children some trace of yearning? It had been a grave disappointment to them both – more than a disappointment, a gnawing sorrow – that, after the early demise of one infant, and then a second, no child had been forthcoming. William was especially dear with children: when her own sister visited, with her two boys, William spent almost all his time horizontal on the Turkey rug, lifting them aloft on his feet, so that they squealed with delight. This widowed Mrs Lockwood that Alice was asked to call upon at least had two dear companions to hold close and to remember her dead husband by: if William were to perish, Alice would be left with no one. And now that Algie had gone, Alice felt it more incumbent upon her than ever to keep the Gale name alive; yet while her husband was so far off there could be no hope of an heir.

Alice had plans, in any case, to go to Cheltenham. Her Aunt Felicity had been her father’s only sister and Alice was especially fond of her; it was her custom to spend a night or two each month under her roof. Fair-skinned, prone to blushes, her aunt was quick to laughter and to tears; her moods passed with the alacrity of those pillowy clouds at the seaside. She was clumsy, good-natured and saw the best in everyone; as the hymn had it, she was slow to chide and swift to bless. Also, the town was the place to pick up embroidery silk and sheet music and passementerie. Alice liked to have a jumble of things in her work basket and across her desk, cottons and papers and printed pamphlets and paper-knives and drawing things spilling from one table to the next; she was one of those who felt more alive if the tasks before her were half-done than from a thing completed. She enjoyed her visits to Cheltenham. It was agreeable to stroll about there, on a summer’s evening, when the bandstands in the leafy parks gave out the strains of brass or silver ensembles and the smell of lime flowers scented the air. There were concerts at the pump room and, nearby, a variety of tropical birds in an elaborate aviary, their plumage as vivid as the bright hues in the low beds of annual flowers which now adorned the pleasure gardens.