The woman who paused for a moment upon the threshold of the library,
looking in upon the little company, was undeniably beautiful. She
had masses of red-gold hair, a little disordered by her long
railway journey, deep-set hazel eyes, a delicate, almost
porcelain-like complexion, and a sensitive, delightfully shaped
mouth. Her figure was small and dainty, and just at that moment she
had an appearance of helplessness which was almost childlike. Nora,
after a vigorous embrace, led her stepmother towards a chair.

"Come and sit by the fire, Mummy," she begged. "You look tired and
cold."

Philippa exchanged a general salutation with her guests. She was
still wearing her travelling coat, and her air of fatigue was
unmistakable. Griffiths, who had not taken his eyes off her since
her entrance, wheeled an easy-chair towards the hearth-rug, into
which she sank with a murmured word of thanks.

"You'll have some tea, won't you, dear?" Helen enquired.

Philippa shook her head. Her eyes met her friend's for a moment
--it was only a very brief glance, but the tragedy of some mutual
sorrow seemed curiously revealed in that unspoken question and
answer. The two young subalterns prepared to take their leave.
Nora, kneeling down, stroked her stepmother's hand.

"No news at all, then?" Helen faltered.