Anna would feel the small hand at her elbow, and would think that the fingers were curiously strong; strong and efficient they would feel, like Sir Philip’s, and this always vaguely displeased her. Nevertheless she would smile at Stephen while she let the child guide her in and out between the puddles. She would say: ‘Thank you, dear; you’re as strong as a lion!’ trying to keep that displeasure from her voice. Very protective and careful was Stephen when she and her mother were out alone together. Not all her queer shyness could prevent her protecting, nor could Anna’s own shyness save her from protection. She was forced to submit to a quiet supervision that was painstaking, gentle but extremely persistent. And yet was this love? Anna often wondered. It was not, she felt sure, the trusting devotion that Stephen had always felt for her father; it was more like a sort of instinctive admiration, coupled with a large, patient kindness. ‘If she’d only talk to me as she talks to Philip, I might get to understand her,’ Anna would muse, ‘It’s so odd not to know what she’s feeling and thinking, to suspect that something’s always being kept in the background.’ Their drives home from Malvern were usually silent, for Stephen would feel that her task was accomplished, her mother no longer needing her protection now that the coachman had the care of them both—he, and the arrogant-looking grey cobs that were yet so mannerly and gentle. As for Anna, she would sigh and lean back in her corner, weary of trying to make conversation. She would wonder if Stephen were tired or just sulky, or if, after all, the child might be stupid. Ought she, perhaps, to feel sorry for the child? She could never quite make up her mind.