that old men who have lived bravely feel for young men whom they see carrying on the tradition of brave life, and it made her want to cry to see how crowsfeet of pleasure came at the corners of their eyes when they looked at Richard, and how they liked to slap his strong back with their rough hands, which age was making delicate with filigree of veins and wrinkles.  And she could see, too, that they liked her.  They looked at her as if they thought she was pretty, and teased her about the Votes-for-Women button she was wearing, but quite nicely.

When they were standing under the dark eaves of the boathouse, looking up at the gleaming tawny sides of the motor-launch, one of the old men pointed at the golden letters that spelt “Gwendolen” at the prow, and said, “Well, Yaverland, I suppose you’ll have forgotten who she is these days.”  Another added:  “He’d better, if he’s going to marry a Suffragette.”  And all broke into clear, frosty laughter.  She cried out in protest, and told them that Suffragettes were not really fierce at all, and that the newspapers just told a lot of lies about them, and that anyway it was only old-fashioned women who were jealous, and they listened with smiling, benevolent deference, which she enjoyed until her eyes lighted on Richard, and she saw that he was more absorbed in her effect on his friends than in herself.

For a moment she felt as lonely as she had been before she knew him, and she looked towards the boat and stared at the reflection of the group in the polished side and wished that one of the dim, featureless shapes she saw there had been her mother, or anyone who had had a part in her old life in Edinburgh.  She turned back to the men and brought the conversation to an end with a little laughing shake of the head, giving them the present of an aspect of her beauty to induce them to let her mind go free.  Again she felt something that her commonsense forbade to be quite fear when he did not notice for a minute that she was wistfully asking him to take her away.  It was all right, of, course.

When they had said good-bye to the happy old men and were walking along the promenade, he asked:  “What was the matter, darling?  Didn’t you like them?  They’re really very good old sorts”; and understood perfectly when she answered:  “I know they are, but I don’t want anybody but you.”  There was indeed vehemence in his reply:  “Yes, dear, we don’t want anybody but ourselves, do we?” Undoubtedly there was a change in the nature of the attention he was giving her.  Instead of concentrating in that steady delighted survey of herself to which she was accustomed, he alternated between an almost excessive interest in what she was saying and complete abstraction, during which he would turn suddenly aside and drive his stick through the ice on the little pools at the sagging outside edge of the promenade, his mouth contracting as if he really hated it.  She hovered meekly by while he did that.  If one went to see a dear friend, whose