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" There was something clear-cut about her,
something not exactly harsh, but savouring of decision. She was plainly
a personality--not an ordinary type. The lines of her face told their
story. They had been hammered into a kind of hard efficiency. But over
that exterior of tranquil self-possession was super-imposed something
else--certain marks of recent trouble. Her eyes looked almost as if she
had been weeping. She made a tremendous show of cheeriness, however,
calling him Tommy as in olden days.
Just a little headache. This sirocco. It was bad enough when it blew in
the ordinary fashion. But quite intolerable when it hung breathlessly
about the air like this. Mr. Eames--he once called it PLUMBEUS AUSTER.
That meant leaden, didn't it? Everybody had headaches, more or less.
Was she speaking the truth? The bishop decided that she had an headache
and that this south wind was certainly unendurable. None the less, he
suspected that she was employing the common subterfuge--telling the
truth, but not the whole truth; perhaps not even the main part of it.


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