Those three days at Robin Hill had been exciting, sad, embarrassing.  Memories of her dead brother, memories of Val’s courtship; the ageing of her father, not seen for twenty years, something funereal in his ironic gentleness which did not escape one who had much subtle instinct; above all, the presence of her stepmother, whom she could still vaguely remember as the “lady in grey” of days when she was little and grandfather alive and Mademoiselle Beauce so cross because that intruder gave her music lessons—­all these confused and tantalised a spirit which had longed to find Robin Hill untroubled.  But Holly was adept at keeping things to herself, and all had seemed to go quite well.

Her father had kissed her when she left him, with lips which she was sure had trembled.

“Well, my dear,” he said, “the War hasn’t changed Robin Hill, has it?  If only you could have brought Jolly back with you!  I say, can you stand this spiritualistic racket?  When the oak-tree dies, it dies, I’m afraid.”

From the warmth of her embrace he probably divined that he had let the cat out of the bag, for he rode off at once on irony.

“Spiritualism—­queer word, when the more they manifest the more they prove that they’ve got hold of matter.”

“How?” said Holly.

“Why!  Look at their photographs of auric presences.  You must have something material for light and shade to fall on before you can take a photograph.  No, it’ll end in our calling all matter spirit, or all spirit matter—­I don’t know which.”

“But don’t you believe in survival, Dad?”

Jolyon had looked at her, and the sad whimsicality of his face impressed her deeply.

“Well, my dear, I should like to get something out of death.  I’ve been looking into it a bit.  But for the life of me I can’t find anything that telepathy, sub-consciousness, and emanation from the storehouse of this world can’t account for just as well.  Wish I could!  Wishes father thought but they don’t breed evidence.”  Holly had pressed her lips again to his forehead with the feeling that it confirmed his theory that all matter was becoming spirit—­his brow felt, somehow, so insubstantial.

But the most poignant memory of that little visit had been watching, unobserved, her stepmother reading to herself a letter from Jon.  It was—­she decided—­the prettiest sight she had ever seen.  Irene, lost as it were in the letter of her boy, stood at a window where the light fell on her face and her fine grey hair; her lips were moving, smiling, her dark eyes laughing, dancing, and the hand which did not hold the letter was pressed against her breast.  Holly withdrew as from a vision of perfect love, convinced that Jon must be nice.

When she saw him coming out of the station with a kit-bag in either hand, she was confirmed in her predisposition.  He was a little like Jolly, that long-lost idol of her childhood, but eager-looking and less formal, with deeper eyes and brighter-coloured hair, for he wore no hat; altogether a very interesting “little” brother!