“Exactly!” Jolyon had murmured, looking at her faintly smiling lips; and he had gone away thinking: “A fascinating woman! What a waste! I’m glad the Dad left her that money.” He had not seen her again, but every quarter he had signed her cheque, forwarding it to her bank, with a note to the Chelsea flat to say that he had done so; and always he had received a note in acknowledgment, generally from the flat, but sometimes from Italy; so that her personality had become embodied in slightly scented grey paper, an upright fine handwriting, and the words, “Dear Cousin Jolyon.” Man of property that he now was, the slender cheque he signed often gave rise to the thought: “Well, I suppose she just manages”; sliding into a vague wonder how she was faring otherwise in a world of men not wont to let beauty go unpossessed. At first Holly had spoken of her sometimes, but “ladies in grey” soon fade from children’s memories; and the tightening of June’s lips in those first weeks after her grandfather’s death whenever her former friend’s name was mentioned, had discouraged allusion. Only once, indeed, had June spoken definitely: “I’ve forgiven her. I’m frightfully glad she’s independent now.⁠ ⁠…”