“And, poor dear!” Pauline said to her husband, “no one knows what she has borne. And now ...” She was sitting alone opposite Leicester in the railway carriage; she was still in furs, for March was by no means done with, and the black, grey-tipped hairs encircling her porcelain cheeks and chin, the black, grey-tipped furs crowning her brow, that was like soft and translucent china, she leaned back in the seat, and was so tiny that her feet did not touch the floor. Her brows curved out over her eyes; their lashes curved out and upwards, so that she had an expression of being a newly awakened and wondering child, and about her lips there hovered always one of those faint ghosts of smiles that are to other smiles as the faint odour of pot-pourri is to the scent of roses. Her husband called her Puff-Ball, because he said a breath of wind would scatter her like an odorous smoke, gone in a second; but she had acquired her faint smile whilst tending five very robust children when she had been a nursery governess. She was twenty-three. “You see,” she went on, “it was always mother’s ambition--her secret ambition--to have a white pony and a basket-work open chaise. It must be a white pony and a basket-work chaise. You know, the New Forest’s the place where all Admirals go to die, and all their widows always set up these chaises, just as all the Admirals always have parrots. Not that I ever considered mother as a widow. I suppose that was because I hardly saw her at all in her weeds, and I hardly ever saw her with my father--and yet she was in such an agony of fear whenever the wind blew, or when the weather was fierce. When it blew in the Forest, it used to remind her that there might be wind at sea; when it was a dead calm, she was always convinced that that meant that there was a particularly vicious cyclone somewhere else. She always seemed most characteristic when she was sitting bolt upright, with one hand close to her heart--listening. And I don’t think she was the woman for father. He was so big and grizzled, and loud and romantic. He used to shout at her: ‘What’d a puff of wind do to a first-class cruiser? What’d it do, d’you think?’ It wasn’t that he wasn’t prouder of her than you are of me. Why, I’ve seen him take her up in his arms and hoist her towards the ceding, as if she had been a baby, and roar with laughter. But I don’t think that was very good for mother. And you know she got her first touch of heart trouble when the _Victoria_ was rammed. She was in Lyndhurst, and read it on the placards--_Flagship sunk_: _Admiral and six hundred lives lost_.’ She put her hand over her heart and fell over backwards. Oh! poor dear!” Pauline looked at her husband. “Yes, old boy,” she said, “you don’t know what we women have to suffer.”