But it was not to his sister, it was to Kathleen that his pride in his achievements was naively displayed; his running accompaniment of chatter was for Kathleen’s benefit, his appeals were to her sympathy and understanding, not to his sister’s.

Geraldine watched him in silence.  Tired, not physically very well, this home-coming meant something to her.  She had looked forward to it, and to her brother, unconsciously wistful for the protection of home and kin.  For the day had been a hard one; she was able to affix the red-cross mark to her letter to Duane that morning, but it had been a bad day for her, very bad.

And now as she stood there, white, nerveless, fatigued, an ache grew in her breast, a dull desire for somebody of her own kin to lean on; and, following it, a slow realisation of how far apart from her brother she had drifted since the old days of cordial understanding in the schoolroom—­the days of loyal sympathy through calm and stress, in predatory alliance or in the frank conflicts of the squared circle.

Suddenly her whole heart filled with a blind need of her brother’s sympathy—­a desire to return to the old intimacy as though in it there lay comfort, protection, sanctuary for herself from all that threatened her—­herself!

Kathleen was assisting Scott to envelop the frog in a bath towel for the benevolent purpose of transplanting him presently to some other bath-tub; and Kathleen’s golden head and Scott’s brown one were very close together, and they were laughing in that intimate undertone characteristic of thorough understanding.  Her brother’s expression as he looked up at Kathleen Severn, was a revelation to his sister, and it pierced her with a pang of loneliness so keen that she started forward in sheer desperation, as though to force a path through something that was pushing her away from him.

“Let me take his frogship,” she said with a nervous laugh.  “I’ll put him into a jolly big tub where you can grow all the water-weeds you like, Scott.”

Her brother, surprised and gratified, handed her the bath-towel in the depths of which reposed the batrachian.

“He’s really an interesting fellow, Sis,” explained Scott; “he exudes a sticky, viscous fluid from his pores which is slightly toxic.  I’m going to try it on a Rose-beetle.”

Geraldine shuddered, but forced a smile, and, holding the imprisoned one with dainty caution, bore him to a palatial and porcelain-lined bath-tub, into which she shook him with determination and a suppressed shriek.

That night at dinner Scott looked up at his sister with something of the old-time interest and confidence.

“I was pretty sure you’d take an interest in all these things, sooner or later.  I tell you, Geraldine, it will be half the fun if you’ll go into it with us.”

“I want to,” said his sister, smiling, “but don’t hurry my progress or you’ll scare me half to death.”