Several of the family were standing round the vehicle talking in a
desultory manner, and Vellacott learnt then for the first time that
Frederick Farrar had left home that same morning to attend a midland
race-meeting.

It was one of those brilliant summer days when it is quite impossible to
be pessimistic and exceedingly difficult to compass preoccupation. The
light breeze bowling over the upland from the sea had just sufficient
strength to blow away all mental cobwebs. Also, Christian Vellacott had
suddenly given way to one of those feelings which sometimes come to us
without apparent reason. The present was joyous enough without the aid
of the ever-to-be-bright future, and Vellacott felt that, after all,
French politics and Frederick Farrar did not quite monopolise the world.

Hilda was on this occasion more talkative than usual. There was in her
manner a new sense of ease, almost of familiarity, which Vellacott could
not understand. He noticed that she spoke invariably in generalities,
avoiding all personal matters. Of herself she said no word, though she
appeared willing enough to answer any question he might ask. She led him
on to talk of himself and his work, listening gravely to his account of
the little household at Chelsea. He made the best of this topic, and
even treated it in a merry vein; but her smile, though sincere enough,
was of short duration and not in itself encouraging. She appeared to see
the pathos of it instead of the humour. Suddenly, in the middle of a
particularly funny story about Aunt Judith, she interrupted him and
changed the conversation entirely. She did not again refer to his home
life.

As they were returning in the full glare of the midday sun, they
descried in front of them the figure of an old man; he was walking