He stood back and held her shoulders. He neither attempted to prevent his nephew's departure, nor to follow him. No work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated for herself. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. He moaned. ’ ‘Oui, mais—safe. ” He was slightly tipsy.
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