Then with the evening came the boy’s leave-taking; full of affection towards his father and sister, and markedly chilly in the case of Elizabeth.  When the station taxi had driven off, Elizabeth—­with that cold touch of the boy’s fingers still tingling on her hand—­turned from the front door to see Pamela disappearing to the schoolroom, and the Squire fidgeting with an evening paper which the taxi had brought him from the station.

Elizabeth suddenly noticed the shaking of the paper, over which only the crest of white hair showed.  Too bad of Pamela to have gone off without a word to her father!  Was it sympathy with the Squire, or resentment on her own account, that made Elizabeth go up to him?—­though at a respectful distance.

’Shall we finish the bit of translation we began this morning, if you’re not busy?’ she said gently.  It was very rarely now that she was able to do any classical work after the mornings.

The Squire threw down the newspaper, and strode on before her to the library without a word.  Elizabeth followed.  Rain and darkness had been shut out.  The wood fire glowed on the hearth, and its ruddy light was on the face of the Nike, and its solemn outstretched wings.  All the apparatus of their common work was ready, the work that both loved.  Elizabeth felt a sudden, passionate drawing towards this man twenty years older than herself, which seemed to correspond to the new and smarting sense of alienation from the twins and their raw, unjust youth.  What had been the reason for their behaviour to her that day?—­what had she done?  She was conscious of long weeks of effort, in Pamela’s case,—­trying to please and win her; and of a constant tender interest in Desmond, which had never missed an opportunity of doing or suggesting something he might like—­all for this!  She must have offended them she supposed in some way; how, she could not imagine.  But her mood was sore; and, self-controlled as she was, her pulse raced.

Here, however, she was welcome, she was needed; she could distract and soothe a bitterness of soul best measured by the Squire’s most unusual taciturnity.  No railing at the Government or the war, not a fling even at the ‘d——­d pedant, Chicksands!’ or ’The Bubbly-jocks,’ as he liked to call the members of the County War Committee.  Elizabeth put a text of Aristophanes—­the Pax—­into his hands, and drew her table near to him, waiting his pleasure.  There was a lamp behind him which fell on her broad, white brow, her waiting eyes and hand, and all the friendly intelligence of her face.  The Squire began haltingly, lost his place, almost threw the book away; but she cheered him on, admired this phrase, delicately amended that, till the latent passion had gripped him, and he was soon in full swing, revelling in all the jests and topicalities of the play, where the strikers and pacifists, the profiteers, the soldiers and munition workers of two thousand odd years ago, fight and toil,