He was anxious for the sake of this friendshipand perhaps too in order to clear himself in hisown mind from the imputation of having driedand shrunk—for Ramsay lived in a welter ofchildren, whereas Bankes was childless and awidower—he was anxious that Lily Briscoe shouldnot disparage Ramsay (a great man in his ownway) yet should understand how things stoodbetween them. Begun long years ago, theirfriendship had petered out on a Westmorlandroad, where the hen spread her wings before herchicks; after which Ramsay had married, andtheir paths lying different ways, there had been,certainly for no one’s fault, some tendency, whenthey met, to repeat.

Yes. That was it. He finished. He turnedfrom the view. And, turning to walk back theother way, up the drive, Mr. Bankes was alive tothings which would not have struck him had notthose sandhills revealed to him the body of hisfriendship lying with the red on its lips laid up inpeat—for instance, Cam, the little girl, Ramsay’syoungest daughter. She was picking Sweet Aliceon the bank. She was wild and fierce. She wouldnot "give a flower to the gentleman" as thenursemaid told her. No! no! no! she would not!