To Sophia that event was to be the securing of the cottage by some vague and splendid means, and the settling down of herself, Harry and Francis, into a life of orderly and pleasant routine. Her passion for order, shape and beauty was still only half recognized by herself, and it fought constantly with her instinct to idle and day dream and suck in impressions without delivering judgment on them; and the conflict weakened both instincts.

Nevertheless, the shaping and ordering instinct was an extremely strong one; and what secret wisdom made her conceal its strength from her brothers?

She did not know; but she knew that if she wanted them to lead the life with her that she planned, she must never, never try to ‘run’ them, nor let them think she was.

So it would all be extremely difficult, because she was dreadfully bored by the intrigues and the subtle ‘managing’ of obtuse males, which the feminine woman is supposed to enjoy so much. It was so much easier to Sophia to tell a person plainly what she wanted them to do, and, if they would not do it, to go away and manage as best she could by herself. She found long talks about people’s motives, actions and probable reactions the most boring experience within her range, and as for ‘managing’ human beings, as though they were tame animals, that shocked her sense of humanity’s dignity.

And after all, who was she to impose her ideal way of life on another human being? It suited her very well, but for someone else it might be all wrong.

Wearily, curled up on the comfortable old sofa, she turned her mind away from wrongs and rights, wills and brothers and cottages; and began to think a poem over to herself, staring into the fire.

For Harry, the next event was to be the securing of the three thousand pounds, and a deliberate plunge into a good time, with the help of theatrical friends, who had just initiated him into the meaning of this phrase.

Harry seemed to have been affected the least by their home life; this was because his manner was gay and charming, and he seemed to have a happy temperament, but actually the years of fear and insecurity had wounded him more deeply than they had wounded his brother and sister. He was a gentler person, who lacked the fighting instinct of Sophia and Francis; and the angry sounds and the terrifying anticipation of blows and unknown horrors which haunted his childhood had given him a true soul wound; a painful sense of inferiority hidden deep under his gay, easy manner.

He thirsted for gaiety, crowds, noise and admiration to lull his own sense of insecurity. The idea of responsibilities terrified him; he wanted to escape from them, and to forget the ugly noises, shames and endless fears of his childhood. Sometimes he could hint at this state of mind to Francis, who loved him and whom he loved, but not easily or often, because he scarcely realized what was the matter with him.