But here, in the centre of that bed, was a living, breathing plant, making everything around it enchanted and transparent by the diffused loveliness of its presence. This passive entity in front of him, with her honey-pale oval face, her long eyelashes, her thin legs, her faintly outlined childish figure, was the only true, real, actual living girl in all the earth.

The minutes slipped by, and Wolf found himself, to his surprise, even talking to her about Olwen. So far from this extraordinary topic agitating her, she seemed to find a deep relief in speaking of it.

“Were you old enough to realize what was going on between them?” Wolf asked her at last.

Christie nodded her head and smiled a little. “The odd thing is,” she said gently, “that there never seemed to me anything strangely unnatural in it. I don’t think Mother ever was the right person for Father. I think from her earliest childhood there was a peculiar link between him and my sister.”

“But it killed your mother, didn’t it?” murmured Wolf.