II
He did not rise to greet her. He merely said, and the timbre¹ of his voicewas slightly changed:
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Betterton.”
For a moment Hilary stood motionless. Astonishment² held her in itsgrip. So this—was it! She pulled herself together. This is what you’ve beenexpecting. Act as you think she would act. She came forward and saideagerly:
“You have news for me? You can help me?”
He nodded, then said reproachfully:
“I found you, Madame, somewhat obtuse³ upon the train. Perhaps youare too well accustomed to talk of the weather.”
“The weather?” She stared at him, bewildered.
What had he said about weather on the train? Cold? Fog? Snow?
Snow. That was what Olive Betterton had whispered as she lay dying.
And she had quoted a silly little jingle—what was it?
Snow, snow, beautiful snow,
You slip on a lump and over you go.
Hilary repeated it falteringly⁴ now.
“Exactly—why did you not respond with that immediately as ordered?”
“You don’t understand. I have been ill. I was in a plane crash and after-wards in hospital with concussion⁵. It’s affected⁶ my memory in all sorts ofways. Everything long ago is clear enough, but there are terrible blanks—great gaps.” She let her hands rise to her head. She found it easy enough togo on with a real tremor⁷ in her voice. “You can’t understand how frighten-ing that is. I keep feeling that I’ve forgotten important things—really im-portant things. The more I try to get them back, the less they will come.”
“Yes,” said Laurier, “the aeroplane crash was unfortunate.” He spoke⁸ ina cold businesslike way. “It is going to be a question of whether you havethe necessary

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