They all felt ashamed of the quarrel. The things which had been said during it had to be said. They were the fruits of secret discontents and serious differences in opinion; they had to have vent. But now that they were out and had done their hurtful work, everyone was sorry they had been said. The air might be clear, as a result of the row, but it was only the mournful clarity which comes before rain.

Sophia was defeated, and acknowledged it. Her threats had done no good. Both she and her brothers knew that she could never execute them. Three was company still, in spite of everything; and she could not betray her brothers to the relations. She was helpless. She had done her best, hampered as she was by the fear of losing her brothers’ love, her doubts as to her own wisdom and her fear of becoming like Uncle Preston: and could do no more.

Fortunately her last days at the cottage were so filled with activity that she did not have time to feel wretched. She had had to find a room, with Celia’s help, and buy a bed and other things, and this had to be done after her day’s work, so her evenings were occupied as well as her days.

But when she had time for thought she felt profoundly lonely and sad.

It hurt her deeply not to be on terms of the friendliest intimacy with her brothers and she was also extremely worried about their future. She seemed to feel the spirit of their father lingering in the background of their lives, and imagined his influence growing in the natures of his sons like a stain. He could not be ignored nor forgotten. He was dead, but his influence lay on his children like the shade of a dark tree, as their mother’s influence was like the sunlight beyond it.

Harry and Francis were also extremely occupied, signing documents and flying about in Juan’s car. They did not discuss their plans with Sophia; this was not because they were still angry with her, but because they did not want to hurt her feelings. A barrier stood between the three, despite their careful politeness to each other. The last ten days at the cottage were most unhappy ones. Everyone was looking forward to the Saturday evening which was to be their last one in the Vale.

One disagreeable task which fell to Sophia was the dismissal of the cottage’s pensioners. She dreaded telling Mrs Barker that they were going, because Mrs Barker seemed to rely heavily upon the cottage, her one-and-sixpence, and her two cups of Indian tea and Harry’s periodical bursts of small change.

‘I suppose you couldn’t take her on when we’re gone?’ said Sophia to Celia, not hopefully.

‘Darling, we had her once, you know, and she was too awful. Honestly, things were dirtier when she’d finished than when she began. Besides, she’s an awful old whiner. She’s got more than she says she has. She rather imposes on you.’