He kept her arm close pressed by him, and she knew by the frankness of that holding caress he was thinking of her still either not at all, or, she hoped, as a comrade who could perhaps be of assistance to courage and clear-sightedness in difficult hours.  She wanted to be no more than that to him just now; it was the most she could do for him, but with a desire, the most acute she had ever felt for him, she wanted him to accept that—­to take her comradeship as he would have surely taken her brother’s.  Once, in the last intimate moments they had had together, he had refused to accept that attitude from her—­had felt it a relationship altogether impossible.  She had seen his point of view, and recognised the justice of the embarrassment.  Now, very simply but very eagerly, she hoped, as with some tugging strain, that he would not reject it.  She knew she had missed this brother, who had refused to be brother to her.  But he had been about his own business, and he had been doing his own business, with a quiet splendour that drew her eyes to him, and as they stood there, thus linked, she wondered if her heart was following. . . .  She had seen, last December, how reasonable it was of him to refuse this domestic sort of intimacy with her; now, she found herself intensely longing that he would not persist in his refusal.

Suddenly Michael awoke to the fact of her presence, and abruptly he moved away from her.

“Thanks, Sylvia,” he said.  “I know I have your—­your good wishes.  But—­well, I am sure you understand.”

She understood perfectly well.  And the understanding of it cut her to the quick.

“Have you got any right to behave like that to me, Michael?” she asked.  “What have I done that you should treat me quite like that?”

He looked at her, completely recalled in mind to her alone.  All the hopes and desires of the autumn smote him with encompassing blows.

“Yes, every right,” he said.  “I wasn’t heeding you.  I only thought of my mother, and the fact that there was a very dear friend by me.  And then I came to myself:  I remembered who the friend was.”

They stood there in silence, apart, for a moment.  Then Michael came closer.  The desire for human sympathy, and that the sympathy he most longed for, gripped him again.

“I’m a brute,” he said.  “It was awfully nice of you to—­to offer me that.  I accept it so gladly.  I’m wretchedly anxious.”

He looked up at her.

“Take my arm again,” he said.

She felt the crook of his elbow tighten again on her wrist.  She had not known before how much she prized that.

“But are you sure you are right in being anxious, Mike?” she asked.  “Isn’t it perhaps your own tired nerves that make you anxious?”

“I don’t think so,” he said.  “I’ve been tired a long time, you see, and I never felt about my mother like this.  She has been so bright and content all day, and yet there were little lapses, if you understand.  It was as if she knew:  she said good-bye to the lake and the jolly moor-hens and the grass.  And her nurse thinks so, too.  She called me out of the room just now to tell me that. . . .  I don’t know why I should tell you these depressing things.”