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wrinkled. The gray curls which she still wore in the fashion
of her youth gave her a queer, pathetic look; and her little
withered body was like an autumn leaf, you felt it might
be blown away by the first sharp wind. Philip realised that
they had done with life, these two quiet little people: they
belonged to a past generation, and they were waiting there
patiently, rather stupidly, for death; and he, in his vigour
and his youth, thirsting for excitement and adventure, was
appalled at the waste. They had done nothing, and when
they went it would be just as if they had never been. He felt
a great pity for Aunt Louisa, and he loved her suddenly be-
cause she loved him.
Then Miss Wilkinson, who had kept discreetly out of
the way till the Careys had had a chance of welcoming their
nephew, came into the room.
‘This is Miss Wilkinson, Philip,’ said Mrs. Carey.
‘The prodigal has returned,’ she said, holding out her
hand. ‘I have brought a rose for the prodigal’s buttonhole.’
With a gay smile she pinned to Philip’s coat the flower
she had just picked in the garden. He blushed and felt fool-
ish. He knew that Miss Wilkinson was the daughter of his
Uncle William’s last rector, and he had a wide acquaintance
with the daughters of clergymen. They wore ill-cut clothes
and stout boots. They were generally dressed in black, for
in Philip’s early years at Blackstable homespuns had not
reached East Anglia, and the ladies of the clergy did not
favour colours. Their hair was done very untidily, and they
smelt aggressively of starched linen. They considered the
feminine graces unbecoming and looked the same whether

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