not Anne and not Anne's mother. As for Eliot's disapproval, she was no
longer aware of it.

"Oh, to be cool, to be cool again! Thank you, my son."

Eliot had moved all the cushions down under the tree, scowling as he did
it, for he knew that when his mother was really cool he would have to
get up and move them back again.

With the perfect curve of a great supple animal, she turned and settled
in her lair, under her tree.

Presently, down the steps and across the lawn, Anne's father came
towards her, grave, handsome, and alone.

Handsome even after fifteen years of India. Handsomer than when he was
young. More distinguished. Eyes lighter in the sallowish bronze. She
liked his lean, eager, deerhound's face, ready to start off, sniffing
the trail. A little strained, leashed now, John's eagerness. But that
was how he used to come to her, with that look of being ready, as if
they could do things together.

She had tried to find his youth in Anne's face; but Anne's blackness and
whiteness were her mother's; her little nose was still soft and vague;
you couldn't tell what she would be like in five years' time. Still,
there was something; the same strange quality; the same
forward-springing grace.

Before he reached her, Adeline was smiling again. A smile of the
delicate, instinctive mouth, of the blue eyes shining between curled