Twice, as she climbed the meadow-path, Patricia wanted to turn back. She had behaved like a lunatic. She had done two unpardonable things: gossiped with a servant, interfered between a man and a woman. The letter must not be sent—the letter must be destroyed. But Patricia did not turn back....

Among the haystacks in the field behind his cow-yard, old man Tebbits was feeding his chickens. Patricia heard his quaint treble: “Come birds—come birds—come birds”; came upon him suddenly as she rounded the first rick. He plucked cap from head, said:

“Good-evening, missis.”

“Good evening, Mr. Tebbits.” She could see that old man Tebbits was ripe for a gossip. He began to talk as he scattered the corn, and she stood listening to him for a full five minutes. “Middlings was up again—and bad. He never remembered them so bad. And the bran. You couldn’t really call it bran. Same with the toppings. That gilt of hers would make a fine sow. Store-pigs didn’t pay like they used to. Ten-week pigs didn’t pay so bad. He always killed ‘brokes.’ ‘Brokes’ was no good.”

Patricia had not yet learned the meaning of a “broke”; but she found Tebbits’ gossip comforting. Here, at least, was somebody normal, somebody of the old kindly world, the world, that had gone to smash in August, 1914.... Reluctantly, she made her excuses, bade him good-night; picked her way through the cow-yard, out on to the road: reluctantly, she swung the gate of Sunflowers, passed to her home.

It was nearly five o’clock, dusk deepening to darkness. In the paddock, she could see Fry’s burly figure, locking-up the chicken-houses. But no lamp yet glowed from the hall windows. Perhaps Francis and Peter had gone upstairs to the children....

She turned the knob of the front-door, heard Francis’ voice through the velvet curtains. “Well, anyway it’s a gentleman’s death.” She entered quietly, stood still for a moment. Peter’s voice answered: “Oh, of course a man’s got a right to kill himself if he wants to. No one asked us into this rotten world.”

Patricia slipped out again, closing the door gently behind her; walked round to the back of the house. Fry was just locking up the stable-door. She called out, “Good-night, Fry.” He answered surlily, “Good-night, Madam.” In the red-tiled kitchen, Fanny—a fat slovenly fair-haired girl—was preparing tea. Both lamps were lit; the kitchen glowed hospitably. Patricia scraped her boots; strode in.

“Have the children had their tea, Fanny?”

“Yes, mum. Elizabeth’s upstairs with them now, mum.”

“Why isn’t the lamp in the hall lit?”

“I’m sorry, mum. I forgot it, mum.”

“Go and light it, please.”

The girl rattled a box of matches in her apron pocket; went out. Patricia leaned her stick against the wall; drew off her gauntlets; re-arranged the tea-tray. Through the door, which Fanny had left open, she heard Peter’s, “Mrs. Jameson not come in yet, Fanny?” and the girl’s answer, “Yes. She’s just come in.” ...

The two cousins were sitting in armchairs by the fireplace. They rose as Patricia entered. Francis said, “Good evening, Pat”; Peter, “Hallo, old thing.”

“Why didn’t you ask for the lamp?” asked Patricia.

“Forgot all about it,” said Peter.

“And the room smells like a public-house.”

“You always say that, Pat.” Francis plopped back into his chair. “It’s Peter’s fault, not mine. He ought to give up cigars now he’s out of the business. Besides, he’ll ruin his lungs....”

Patricia saw Peter wince; turned away to draw the brown window-curtains. Fanny clattered in with the tea-tray; put it down on a stool by the fireplace.

“Where are you going to sit, Pat?” Peter was still on his feet, back to the fire.

“In your chair, I think.” She smiled at him. He walked gingerly round the tea-tray; drew himself up a third chair. She poured out; handed them their cups, plates, cakes and bread-and-butter. Talk languished. “What have you two been discussing all the afternoon?” she asked.

“Suicide,” grinned Francis; “nice cheery topic!” and went on, Peter approving, to elaborate his theory.

“Suicide’s the last act of a coward,” decided Patricia.

“Or an altruist,” interrupted Francis.

“What the devil’s an altruist?” asked Peter.

“An altruist”—Patricia rose from the tea-table—“is a woman who leaves a nice comfortable fire to see that Elizabeth doesn’t drown Evelyn and Primula in their baths.”

But she went upstairs heavy-hearted; found no joy in the laughter of her children, in their bath-games, their quaint prayers, their snuggling “good-nights.” ...