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AFTER all, Ursula had come back to London on her own initiative and without the subterfuge of telegrams or excuses, except that she had not told her mildly indignant relatives that she was utterly bored. They had already decided she was more than a little heartless, possibly eccentric, very likely fast. They raised their eyebrows after she had gone, and looked at one another meaningly, but nobody knew what the other meant, which is quite understandable, since they did not know themselves.
It required some courage to take in hand the rearrangements of the house, to move familiar objects so closely associated with her dead father. She had his own two rooms closed and dismantled. Perhaps there would come a time when she could use them, but for the moment they stood for tragedy and heartache.