In repose, Diana noticed, the man's face was grave almost to sternness,
and there was a slightly worn look about it as of one who had passed
through some fiery discipline of experience and had forced himself to
meet its demands. The lines around the mouth, and the firm closing of
the lips, held a suggestion of suffering, but there was no rebellion in
the face, rather a look of inflexible endurance.

Diana wondered what lay behind that curiously controlled expression,
and the memory of certain words he had let fall during their journey
together suddenly recurred to her with a new significance attached to
them. . . . "Just as though we had any too many pleasures in life!" he
had said. And again: "Oh, for that! If we could have what we wanted
in this world! . . ."

Uttered in his light, half-bantering tones, the bitter flavour of the
words had passed her by, but now, as she studied the rather stern set
of his features, they returned to her with fresh meaning and she felt
that their mocking philosophy was to a certain extent indicative of the
man's attitude towards life.

So absorbed was she in her thoughts that the stir and rustle of the
congregation issuing from their seats at the conclusion of the service
came upon her in the light of a surprise; she had not realised that the
service--in which she had been taking a reprehensible perfunctory
part--had drawn to its close, and she almost jumped when Joan nudged
her unobtrusively and whispered:--

"Come along. I believe you're half asleep."