The word “prejudiced” sounded so unexpected and so queer out of her mouth that it charmed away the old maid’s agitation. “It’s all right, my dear,” she murmured, stooping down and lifting her up, and covering her hot forehead with kisses. “It’s all right, Olwen. Mr. Solent shall bring his mother to your house.”

She fell into a deep reverie, staring into vacancy. Past the child’s curly head, which she held pressed against her, she stared, past the puzzled and rather sulky profile of Wolf, past the thick green curtains bordered with red-and-gold braid, out into the gathering night, out into many nights lost and gone.

Wolf now rather impatiently looked at his watch and compared it with the clock upon the mantelpiece.

“It’s half-past six,” he said brusquely, interrupting Miss Gault’s thoughts.