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Chapter 1

           Whenshelookedintheglassandsawherhairgrey,hercheeksunk,atfifty,shethought,possiblyshemighthavemanagedthingsbetter—herhusband;money;hisbooks.Butforherownpartshewouldneverforasinglesecondregretherdecision,evadedifficulties,orsluroverduties.Shewasnowformidabletobehold,anditwasonlyinsilence,lookingupfromtheirplates,aftershehadspokensoseverelyaboutCharlesTansley,thatherdaughters,Prue,Nancy,Rose—couldsportwithinfidelideaswhichtheyhadbrewedforthemselvesofalifedifferentfromhers;inParis,perhaps;awilderlife;notalwaystakingcareofsomemanorother;fortherewasinalltheirmindsamutequestioningofdeferenceandchivalry,oftheBankofEnglandandtheIndianEmpire,ofringedfingersandlace,thoughtothemalltherewassomethinginthisoftheessenceofbeauty,whichcalledoutthemanlinessintheirgirlishhearts,andmadethem,astheysatattablebeneaththeirmother’seyes,honourherstrangeseverity,herextremecourtesy,likeaqueen’sraisingfromthemudtowashabeggar’sdirtyfoot,whensheadmonishedthemsoveryseverelyaboutthatwretchedatheistwhohadchasedthem—or,speakingaccurately,beeninvitedtostaywiththem—intheIsleofSkye.

           "There’llbenolandingattheLighthousetomorrow,"saidCharlesTansley,clappinghishandstogetherashestoodatthewindowwithherhusband.Surely,hehadsaidenough.ShewishedtheywouldbothleaveherandJamesaloneandgoontalking.Shelookedathim.

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