“Alone?”

She nodded.  It was a relief to know that.  And it came into his mind that, but for a twist of fate, she would have been mistress of this coppice, showing these cow-houses to him, a visitor.

“All Alderneys,” he muttered; “they give the best milk.  This one’s a pretty creature.  Woa, Myrtle!”

The fawn-coloured cow, with eyes as soft and brown as Irene’s own, was standing absolutely still, not having long been milked.  She looked round at them out of the corner of those lustrous, mild, cynical eyes, and from her grey lips a little dribble of saliva threaded its way towards the straw.  The scent of hay and vanilla and ammonia rose in the dim light of the cool cow-house; and old Jolyon said: 

“You must come up and have some dinner with me.  I’ll send you home in the carriage.”

He perceived a struggle going on within her; natural, no doubt, with her memories.  But he wanted her company; a pretty face, a charming figure, beauty!  He had been alone all the afternoon.  Perhaps his eyes were wistful, for she answered:  “Thank you, Uncle Jolyon.  I should like to.”

He rubbed his hands, and said: 

“Capital!  Let’s go up, then!” And, preceded by the dog Balthasar, they ascended through the field.  The sun was almost level in their faces now, and he could see, not only those silver threads, but little lines, just deep enough to stamp her beauty with a coin-like fineness—­the special look of life unshared with others.  “I’ll take her in by the terrace,” he thought:  “I won’t make a common visitor of her.”

“What do you do all day?” he said.

“Teach music; I have another interest, too.”

“Work!” said old Jolyon, picking up the doll from off the swing, and smoothing its black petticoat.  “Nothing like it, is there?  I don’t do any now.  I’m getting on.  What interest is that?”

“Trying to help women who’ve come to grief.”  Old Jolyon did not quite understand.  “To grief?” he repeated; then realised with a shock that she meant exactly what he would have meant himself if he had used that expression.  Assisting the Magdalenes of London!  What a weird and terrifying interest!  And, curiosity overcoming his natural shrinking, he asked: 

“Why?  What do you do for them?”

“Not much.  I’ve no money to spare.  I can only give sympathy and food sometimes.”

Involuntarily old Jolyon’s hand sought his purse.  He said hastily:  “How d’you get hold of them?”

“I go to a hospital.”

“A hospital!  Phew!”

“What hurts me most is that once they nearly all had some sort of beauty.”

Old Jolyon straightened the doll.  “Beauty!” he ejaculated:  “Ha!  Yes!  A sad business!” and he moved towards the house.  Through a French window, under sun-blinds not yet drawn up, he preceded her into the room where he was wont to study The Times and the sheets of an agricultural magazine, with huge illustrations of mangold wurzels, and the like, which provided Holly with material for her paint brush.