“She is a strange child. I really don’t understand her very well, I’m afraid. You see, she—she feels that she has become personally acquainted with the man whose books she has been reading, and—while of course I don’t at all approve, I haven’t been able to think of any way to put a stop to it, and so perhaps the news of your brother’s death was a little sudden, and—”

“Oh, I say, I had no idea—”

“No, of course you hadn’t, how could you? Please believe I am not blaming you. It is a thing she must learn to adjust herself to, and—”

“In those circumstances,” began George, feeling his way among baffling female intricacies, “perhaps you would rather—I mean, I only came down to destroy any of his papers he might have left about, and—dispose of his clothes, and—things like that. Needn’t make any difference in the room itself, really, she could go on using the books, I mean, and—”

“If you don’t mind,” interrupted Aunt Effie desperately, “I think it might be better if the room were definitely closed now.”

“I think I see what you mean,” said George, blinking.

“You see, now we have an excuse. You could say that your mother would like the room to be kept locked, for — for sentimental reasons. I’m sure it would be — healthier, for Sabrina.”

“Yes, of course—no doubt it would,” he agreed thoughtfully.

“But I’m forgetting the tea!” cried Aunt Effie, leaping at it. “Do you take milk, Mr. Shenstone?”

“Milk and two lumps, please.” There was a long and awkward silence. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the cup, and promptly scalded himself in his embarrassment.

“I’m sure I don’t know why we try to hold to India these days, it costs so many lives,” said Aunt Effie nervously, preparing her own cup. “Still, your mother must be very proud of him—lie down, Bella, you’ll get your tea later—though of course that’s very poor comfort to her yet. Was your brother a soldier?”

“No, not exactly,” said George, helping himself to bread-and-butter from the plate she offered. “He did odd jobs for the Home Office, you know. Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“I see,” said Aunt Effie rather blankly. There was a callousness in George’s appetite for tea and bread-and-butter which she found rather appalling. She supposed the brothers hadn’t seen each other for some time—and of course there had been several days for George’s first grief to subside—and of course men never showed their real feelings, anyway. But after all, thought Aunt Effie, your own brother, whom you had known as a little boy—. Aunt Effie was sure that if she had had a sister who was killed—. Men, thought Aunt Effie hopelessly, and passed the bread-and-butter again.