Brendon was silent. ‘You seem to understand the gentry very well. ’ ‘You, perhaps?’ she flung at him furiously, stepping out from behind the desk. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. The chair was torture. “It was my sister Anna. There are boats on the lake and shady depths and wildernesses of pine-wood. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached.
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