It was really hard on Father that he didn’t see more of Maurice—his favourite grandchild. But it was so unpleasant bringing the children to the Hall. Not that Lily would make the faintest fuss, of course. Sometimes Father came over to lunch in Gatesley, and then Maurice entertained him the whole time, showing him card tricks, explaining how the dining-room clock worked, asking: “Grandad, what would you do if you were alone in a forest at night, and you had no matches, and no food?” balancing a cricket bat on his chin. But Father was getting too shaky for that now. She’d sent the children over to see him by themselves, but they hadn’t enjoyed it much. They liked being on their own ground, especially Maurice. She didn’t blame him. She’d got into the habit of seldom blaming Maurice, and this, no doubt, was bad. Maurice was altogether too charming. Again and again she saw Desmond, in the way he smiled, cut the bread, ran upstairs, described a conversation. It was like the explanation of a trick. She could watch her son and say, yes—it was that which attracted me to his father, and that and that. She could only be taken in once in a lifetime, but she could appreciate nature’s cleverness. She could appreciate Maurice. This morning, for instance, she simply couldn’t insist on his coming with them. And she might have known that Lily would notice—and remark on it. Well, let her notice. What had this service got to do with Maurice anyhow? No more than with Anne. But Anne took after her mother. She’ll make some man a good wife, thought Mary, with resentment against men. I’ll try to see that he isn’t a Desmond, at any rate.

“I want to suggest to you,” said the Bishop, “that this Cross stands for Freedom and for Remembrance. It stands also for Inspiration. I hope that, in days to come, the boys and girls who pass by this place will be told something of the heroism and self-sacrifice which it commemorates, and of the men who gave their lives in the service of that sacrifice.”

There was one thing she would probably never tell either of the children. Desmond had spent his last leave in London. He had written to know if he might see her. They hadn’t met for years. He didn’t come to the house. He’d arranged a rendezvous by Cleopatra’s Needle. He was forgetting his way about London now, he said. He’d been abroad most of the time. He wasn’t changed in the least. They had tea at a Lyons’ and walked up and down rather absurdly, like people waiting for a train.