Ronald’s friendship with Mrs. Vernon had begun quite naturally, the first time she had attended one of the Society’s meetings, some months ago. The effusive lady who organised the Society’s affairs had introduced them. They chatted about the place they had come to visit, their eyes asking the question: But why are you here? Neither looked the part of archæologist.

In appearance Mrs. Vernon was no more than thirty, and yet a curiously mature air of sadness and quietness surrounded her, so that he knew, after a few moments, that she must be ten or fifteen years older. She seemed sad, even though she laughed and smiled and talked in a rapid eager way about old pictures and old buildings. Since he had known her, she had been dressed always in black, which accentuated the fairness of her hair and skin and gave her sometimes absolutely the look of a child.

After the Society’s meetings came always the question of tea. Sometimes the places they visited would provide it, free or at a shilling a head; sometimes they had all to make for the nearest confectioner’s. At such times, Mrs. Vernon and Ronald naturally drew together, recoiling, without snobbery but by natural instinct, from the rest of the party. They had plenty to talk about. First and foremost, their mutual hobby. Ronald was surprised at her knowledge. It was not great, but it was much greater than he would have expected from a woman. And her feeling for the Past, for the romantic aspect of History, charmed him.

From archæology, they passed over many topics. He discovered that Mrs. Vernon painted; had painted, rather. She had done nothing, she said, for years. Thus it came about that she asked him to her flat, to tea. The portfolios of water-colour sketches she showed, with many apologies for their faults, made him insist that she ought to have kept it up.

“I haven’t cared to,” she answered, smiling sadly, “since the War.”

And at that moment, though she hadn’t made the faintest movement, Ronald noticed on the mantelpiece a silver-framed photograph of a man in uniform. Mrs. Vernon had never spoken to him of her husband. Himself so sensitive, he recoiled immediately, blamed himself for his clumsiness in paining her with his questions. But she, as though guessing this and wishing to reassure him, had continued:

“My husband was an artist, too. He was far better than I am. I should like to show you some of his work.”

How beautifully, he felt later, she had said this.

*   *   *