Anna-Felicitas was in that cleaned-out, beatific, convalescent mood in which one is sure one will never grumble again.  She smiled at anybody who happened to pass by and catch her eye.  She would have smiled just like that, with just that friendly, boneless familiarity at the devil if he had appeared, or even at Uncle Arthur himself.

The twins, as a result of the submarine’s activities, were having the pleasantest day they had had for months.  It was the realization of this that caused Anna-Rose’s remark about good coming out of evil.  The background, she could not but perceive, was a very odd one for their pleasantest day for months—­a rolling steamer and a cold wind flicking at them round the corner; but backgrounds, she pointed out to Anna-Felicitas, who smiled her agreement broadly and instantly, are negligible things:  it is what goes on in front of them that matters.  Of what earthly use, for instance, had been those splendid summer afternoons in the perfect woods and gardens that so beautifully framed in Uncle Arthur?

No use, agreed Anna-Felicitas, smiling fatuously.

In the middle of them was Uncle Arthur.  You always got to him in the end.

Anna-Felicitas nodded and shook her head and was all feeble agreement.

She and Anna-Felicitas had been more hopelessly miserable, Anna-Rose remarked, wandering about the loveliness that belonged to him than they could ever have dreamed was possible.  She reminded Anna-Felicitas how they used to rub their eyes to try and see more clearly, for surely these means of happiness, these elaborate arrangements for it all round them, couldn’t be for nothing?  There must be some of it somewhere, if only they could discover where?  And there was none.  Not a trace of it.  Not even the faintest little swish of its skirts.

Anna-Rose left off talking, and became lost in memories.  For a long time, she remembered, she had told herself it was her mother’s death blotting the light out of life, but one day Anna-Felicitas said aloud that it was Uncle Arthur, and Anna-Rose knew it was true.  Their mother’s death was something so tender, so beautiful, that terrible as it was to them to be left without her they yet felt raised up by it somehow, raised on to a higher level than where they had been before, closer in their hearts to real things, to real values.  But Uncle Arthur came into possession of their lives as a consequence of that death, and he had towered up between them and every glimpse of the sun.  Suddenly there was no such thing as freedom and laughter.  Suddenly everything one said and did was wrong.  “And you needn’t think,” Anna-Felicitas had said wisely, “that he’s like that because we’re Germans—­or seem to be Germans,” she amended.  “It’s because he’s Uncle Arthur.  Look at Aunt Alice. She’s not a German.  And yet look at her.”