Instead of wandering on down the Amazons until she reached some sulphurous tropical port, where one had to lie within doors all day beating off insects with a fan, the sensible thing to do surely was to spend the season with them in their villa by the seaside, where among other advantages Mrs.Ambrose herself would be at hand to--"After all, Rachel," she broke off, "it's silly to pretend that because there's twenty years' difference between us we therefore can't talk to each other like human beings." "No; because we like each other," said Rachel.
"Yes," Mrs.Ambrose agreed.
That fact, together with other facts, had been made clear by their twenty minutes' talk, although how they had come to these conclusions they could not have said.
However they were come by, they were sufficiently serious to send Mrs.
Ambrose a day or two later in search of her brother-in-law.

She found him sitting in his room working, applying a stout blue pencil authoritatively to bundles of filmy paper.

Papers lay to left and to right of him, there were great envelopes so gorged with papers that they spilt papers on to the table.

Above him hung a photograph of a woman's head.

The need of sitting absolutely still before a Cockney photographer had given her lips a queer little pucker, and her eyes for the same reason looked as though she thought the whole situation ridiculous.
Nevertheless it was the head of an individual and interesting woman, who would no doubt have turned and laughed at Willoughby if she could have caught his eye; but when he looked up at her he sighed profoundly.