my experience of her, I saw Viola show funk.

It was the merest tremor of her tilted mouth, the flicker of an eyelash,
an almost invisible veiling of her brilliant eyes; I do not think it
would have been perceptible to anybody who watched her with a less tense
anxiety than mine. But it was there, and it hurt me to see it.

There was one person, only one person, in the world whom Viola was
afraid of, and that was her brother Reggie. She was afraid of him because
she loved him. He was the person in the world that she loved best,
before--before the catastrophe. And this fear of hers that I alone saw
(Reggie most certainly had not seen it) ought to have warned me if
nothing else had.

It probably would have warned me but for what she did next; but for her
whole subsequent behaviour.

She broke loose from Reggie, who had closed on her with a shout of
"Hallo, Vee-Vee!" and an embrace; she broke loose from Reggie and turned
to me, all laughing and rosy from his impact, with an outstretched hand
and a voice that swept to me and rippled with a sort of nervous joy. And
she said: "Oh, Wally, this _is_ nice of you! You'll stop for tea."

Her mouth said that. But her eyes--they had grown suddenly pathetic--said
a lot more. They said: "Don't go, Wally, _please_ don't go. Whatever you
do, don't leave me alone with him." At least, I can see now that that's
what they were saying. And even at the time I saw on her dear face the
same blessed relief (at finding me there) that I had seen on Reggie's.

Neither Reggie nor I, mind you, had seen Jevons yet (I am speaking of