Maud laughed. Ellwood always made her laugh. When he came to stay in the holidays, he’d lounge in the garden, trying to provoke her into flirtation. He never succeeded—Maud wasn’t the flirting type—but Gaunt could tell she liked it. “He’s very silly,” she had said once, fondly. “Do you think,” said Gaunt, to whom this seemed a profound misinterpretation, like calling Napoleon a bit of fun. “Of course, he doesn’t care about anyone,” said Maud, and Gaunt had been too devastated to answer. He never could, when she said things that were new and true and terrible.
