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that often brother fought alongside brother, which led to many a mother grieving the loss of not one child but two or three.
    "Oh, no. No. My brother's body was never found. He was listed missing. I visit the grave of my other brother's friend. Vincent" Celia fussed with her handkerchief.
    "I see. Is your brother, your other brother, recovered?"
    "Um.Yes, yes, in a way."
    Maisie held her head to one side in question but added, "Oh, this is such a difficult subject-"
    "No, I mean, yes.Yes. But ... well, he has scars. Vincent had scars too."
    "Oh. I see"
    "Yes. George, my brother who survived, is like Vincent. His face-"
    Celia slowly moved her finely manicured hands and touched her cheek with delicate fingers. She flinched and tears filled her eyes. At that moment Maisie saw her chance for connection. A connection that was deeper than she would admit. She reached out and touched Celia lightly on the arm until the other woman's eyes met hers. Maisie nodded her understanding.
    "I was a nurse," said Maisie, her voice lowered, not to avoid being heard but to draw Celia toward her. "In France. When I returned from France I nursed again in a secure mental hospital. I understand the wounds, Mrs. Davenham. Those of the body-and of the soul."
    Celia Davenham took Maisie's hand. And at that moment Maisie knew she was in the woman's confidence, that she was trusted. Maisie had anticipated that it would take no longer than the twenty minutes that the women had sat together at the same table. Such was Celia's hunger for connection to someone who understood. And the depth of Maisie Dobbs's understanding of her situation was greater than Celia Davenham could possibly imagine.
    Celia Davenham sat for a moment before speaking again. Wave upon wave of grief seemed to break across her heart with such force that she made a fist with one hand, and gripped Maisie's offered hand of understanding with the other.A waiter coming toward the table to inquire if more tea was required stopped suddenly and moved away, as if repelled by the force of her emotion.
    Maisie closed her eyes, concentrating her calming energy on the woman who sat opposite her. The moment passed, and Maisie opened her eyes to observe Celia relax her shoulders, arms, and the tight grasp on her hand. But she did not let go.
    "I'm sorry."
    "Don't be, Mrs. Davenham. Don't be. Take some tea"
    Keeping Maisie's hand in hers, the woman took the cup in her other hand and, shaking, lifted it to her lips to sip the still-hot tea. The two women sat in silence for several more minutes until Maisie spoke again.
    "Tell me about Vincent, Mrs. Davenham"
    Celia Davenham placed the fine bone china cup in its saucer, took a deep breath, and began to tell her story.
    "I fell in love with Vincent-oh, dear nie-it must have been when I was about twelve. I was just a girl. He came to the house with my brother George. It was my brother Malcolm who died. George was the oldest. Vincent was one of those people who could make anyone laugh-even my parents, who were very stiff indeed. It was as if the sun shone upon Vincent and everyone felt compelled to look at him, just to warm themselves."
    "Yes, I have known such people. I expect he was quite the charmer," said Maisie.
    "Oh yes, quite the charmer. But he didn't realize it. He just went through his life bringing out the best in people. So, he was definitely officer caliber. His men would have followed him to death's door"
    "And no doubt beyond"
    "Yes. And beyond. Apparently when he wrote to the parents or wives of men who had fallen, he always mentioned some small detail about them-a joke they had told, an act of courage, a special effort made. He didn't just say, `I'm sorry to tell you this, but . . . .'He cared."
    Celia took up her cup again, keeping one hand on Maisie's. Maisie, for her part, made no move to withdraw, realizing the strength her touch gave the other woman. She moved only to pour more tea and to bring her own cup to her lips.
    Occasionally she