She did not quite know what to say. She had known that Miss Arden did not always approve of Mr. Hengist, but it had never occurred to her that Mr. Hengist did not like her aunt. She decided to change the subject.

“I saw my first Rugger-match just lately,” she said. “A friend of Stephen’s took me. It was so exciting.”

Mr. Hengist’s eyes gleamed suddenly, and he took his pipe out of his mouth.

“Still at it, Elizabeth,” he said drily.

She did not understand at all. She was glad that the page-boy came in at that moment. Mr. Hengist was so queer.

The page told her that Wendell had called to see her. She said, “Ask him to come up, please,” and turned once more to Mr. Hengist.

“Funnily enough it was Mr. Wendell who took me to Twickenham. He was with Stephen at the Front.”

“Oh, really?” said Mr. Hengist, politely but not with any great show of interest.

Wendell came in; mentally Mr. Hengist said, Dresses too well; don’t like his eyes.

“Hullo, Charles!” Elizabeth said vivaciously. “How nice of you to come and see me! Mr. Hengist, may I introduce Mr. Wendell?”

Both men murmured something inaudible.

“Look here, Betty, what I really came round for was to ask you if you’d care to run out with me in the car and have tea somewhere. Topping day, an’ all that. If you wrap up well don’t you know ...?”

“It’s very kind of you, Charles, but I’m afraid I can’t. Stay and have tea here instead. Stephen will be in very soon.”

Mr. Hengist rose.

“Don’t refuse on my account,” he said. “I must be going. I only just dropped in to see you.”

“Oh, don’t go!” she cried. “I should so like you to stop to tea! I can go motoring with Charles any day of the week!”

Mr. Hengist thought, Can you indeed? but aloud he repeated that he must go.

On the way home he did some hard thinking. He had never seen Elizabeth so sprightly, or so coquettish. And all for a man who dressed too well.

“Gaiety male chorus,” said Mr. Hengist to a lamp-post.

But in the first week of January Stephen took Elizabeth home, and left Wendell with no more than a casual invitation to come and visit them some time or other.

At Queen’s Halt Stephen, whose fingers had itched for a pen during the past weeks, drew forth his manuscript and set to work on it once more. Elizabeth tried to read William Morris, curled up beside the fire. Outside everything was damp and cold, the garden bare, the trees gaunt and shimmering against a grey sky.