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“But that doesn’t happen to be just now. Be seeing you—perhaps.”
    Nobody knew then how soon that occasion was going to occur.

4
    J OHN SHERREN returned to London in a very thoughtful frame of mind. Six months ago, he was reflecting, he had possessed three relatives, all a generation ahead of him, all in reasonably sound health, all, he believed, with a little money, or even quite a lot of money, and all incurably unmarried. And during the past six months two of these relatives had died suddenly and inquests had been held. Now only Aunt Clara was left.
    Clara Bond was his mother’s elder sister, and after the erstwhile Jessica Bond’s death, when her son, John, was four years old, Clara and her younger sister, Isabel, had taken the little boy into their home and brought him up. John’s father, the Rev. Clement Sher-ren, had discovered a missionary vocation immediately after his wife’s death and went out to preach the gospel to the natives. Less than a year after his mother’s death John became an orphan and his Aunt Clara took over his life. She was a born manager. She had managed her mother very capably into her grave after a short mortal illness when she herself was only twenty-six. Thereafter she prevented her father from contracting “a deplorable second marriage,” according to her self, and after he had, not unthankfully, followed his wife to the cemetery, she closed the huge, inconvenient house in which she had been born and removed herself and Isabel to Seaview House, a delightful modern residence set right on the cliff. Isabel liked the situation less than her sister. Heights made her giddy, and nothing would induce her to sit on the balcony that seemed built right over the sea. Down, far down, were rocks, mostly hidden by the tide, but showing like black shadows when the water became shallow, a persistent reminder of their existence.
    “I didn’t suggest you should fall off the balcony,” snapped Clara. ‘But the sea air is very beneficial.”
    When he was a small boy there was no question which of his two aunts had John Sherren’s confidence. Clara was tall, pointed and shining, with the remnants of great handsomeness; she made people think of a darning needle and, like a darning needle, she could draw blood. Isabel, on the other hand, was one of those soft dumpy little people who make you think of a baby owl grown up without altogether losing its engaging youthfulness. Isabel used to say that if Clara remained unmarried it was by her own wish; she had had a number of most eligible offers, but she had a great sense of duty. John was surprised to know that any one had dared propose marriage to so alarming a woman; it proved that civilians also earned the Victoria Cross on occasions, not for momentary bravery but for sustained courage. Isabel was different, very gentle and warm-hearted, with a tendency to tears, to little rushes of affection, to small hands laid for an instant coaxingly on a coat sleeve. She didn’t want to manage, she only wanted to mother. Unlike Clara, she had never wanted votes for women, she wanted to be told not to bother her pretty little head over things she couldn’t understand.
    With Isabel, then, John established a secret relationship in his youth. She used to cover up for him when there was likely to be trouble with Clara, and she tried to get him the particular toys or books he wanted. Clara was Spartan with money.
    “When you’ve grown up, John, and are earning a living, you can squander your money if you wish, though I hope my training will produce better results. But remember, money has to be earned. Every time you spend a penny someone has given you, you are paying for your pleasure with someone else’s toil.”
    John inherited a small income from his mother’s estate when he was twenty-one, and thankfully left his aunt’s house and came to London. His capital, carefully and even enterprisingly invested, brought him in enough to live on in a frugal way. He