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lips. There’s no reason why you should assume responsibility for his insults.”
    “He gets more uncouth daily,” was all she said. “I’m beyond knowing what should be done with him.”
    “He’s trying so hard to be a second Rodric,” said Vere, “that he has overreached himself and his attempts at emulation have merely resulted in a distorted parody.”
    “But he is nothing like Rodric!” Esther cried angrily. “Nothing at all!”
    “No,” said Mary, speaking for the first time. “He is so different from Rodric.”
    “Rodric had such charm, such wit, such ...” Esther broke off, and to my discomfort turned to me. “It was the most dreadful tragedy,” she said rapidly. “No doubt George has mentioned—”
    “Yes,” I said. “Axel told me.”
    “Now, ma’am,” said Vere to his mother, “you mustn’t upset yourself.”
    “No, I’m not upset, but it’s just that now we’re all gathered together again around this table I seem to see Rodric’s ghost the whole time—”
    “Ah come, Esther,” Axel said unexpectedly. “Talking of Rodric’s ghost will make you feel no better. We all miss Rodric to some degree, just as we all miss Papa, and certainly you are entitled to miss both of them more than any of us, but dwelling on your loss will only aggravate your grief. You must know that.”
    “I should like to know,” said Vere, “—just out of interest, naturally—which of us had missed Papa.”
    His voice was extremely polite. While everyone looked at him he cut a slice of beef from the plate in front of him, speared it with his fork and ate it tranquilly.
    “Well, of course,” said Axel, equally courteous, “we all know there was little love lost between you and Papa, and still less between you and Rodric.”
    “One might say the same of you,” said Vere. “We all know what you apparently thought of Rodric. It was clear from your silence at the inquest that in your opinion Rodric was a murderer.”
    “Are you suggesting that he wasn’t?”
    “Why no,” said Vere, his blue eyes open wide. “If Rodric didn’t kill Papa, then who did?”
    There was a clash of a glass shivering into fragments. Alice rose abruptly in dismay, her dress stained with wine from the glass she had overturned. “Dear Lord, look what I’ve done—”
    The diversion was immediate. One of the footmen darted fo r ward with an ineffectual white napkin; the butler murmured “T-t-t-” in distress, and Esther said: “Oh Alice, your new gown!”
    “So careless I was,” said Alice. “So clumsy. Pray excuse me ... ” The men rose as she left the table to try and repair the damage, and then seated themselves again.
    “Such a pity,” said Esther absently. “The stain will never come out.” She turned to me without warning. “Well, my dear, tell us more about yourself. George said so little in his letter.”
    I began to talk, my voice answering her questions naturally, but my mind was confused by the glimpse of the emotions which I had seen unleashed during the earlier conversation, and I found concentration difficult. I was thankful when at last the meal was over and Mary and I retired to the drawing room while Vere and Axel remained in the dining room with their port. Esther had excused herself from us to see if Alice had been able to reduce the stain on her gown, and so Mary and I were alone together.
    There was suddenly so little to say. Even though we were only three years apart in age the gulf between us seemed enormous. After five minutes of desperately difficult conversation I seized on the first topic which entered my head.
    “If it will not affect you too much,” I began cautiously, “please tell me a little about Rodric.” That seemed somewhat bold, so I added, lying: “Axel told me he had a remarkable personality.”
    I could hardly have imagined the effect my words would have. All trace of nervousness seemed to leave the girl; her face was suddenly alive with animation. “George was