That was the end of her career as a Bridge Player; thereafter she steadfastly refused all invitations; it was too alarming, and too unpleasant.

Stephen still occupied the bed in his dressing-room; a slight attack of influenza furnished Elizabeth with an excuse to keep him there. She began to dread the finish of his book; nothing would serve her as an excuse then. She did not know what she would do; she dared not think of that.

Nina was more often than ever at Queen’s Halt, for she too was writing a book. Elizabeth felt that it was purely competitive, or perhaps just a reason to come and talk to Stephen. Nina stood on no ceremony; she never rang the front-door hell, hut walked straight into the hall and shouted to Elizabeth, or to Stephen. After all, she thought, it was her house, not Nina’s, and she had not asked her to treat it as her own.

Nina insisted on reading chapters to Stephen. Elizabeth listened in growing bewilderment, to the haze of words. To her they were meaningless, sometimes even Stephen could not understand them.

“Look here, what is this supposed to be?” he demanded once. “Burlesque, tragedy, or satire?”

“What do you think?” Nina asked.

“Good lord, I don’t know! Cut out the talk and get down to facts. If only you wouldn’t try and be so damned clever in every second sentence!”

“You don’t like it?” Nina became defensive, ready to fight.

“Oh yes, parts of it! I can’t stand that maundering Edwin-person, though. Mixture of Voltaire and Destoievsky.”

“I believe I have been influenced by the Russian school.”

“Judging by the morbidity I should say you have. Come off the roof, Nina, and leave the Russians alone, God help them!”

Then they would argue, banteringly, intimately, till Elizabeth could have screamed. Sometimes Nina grew heated over the argument, furious with Stephen for his imperturbable teasing. Then he would shake her, or pinch her nose, and call her a silly little ass, and tell her to shut up.

“What do you think of the blasted book?” he asked Elizabeth, when Nina had departed.

“I do wish you wouldn’t use such language, Stephen. I daresay the book is all right, but I get very tired of hearing nothing but books, books, books all day long.”

He was hurt by the acidity in her voice, and drew back.

“Sorry if I’ve bored you,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t object to hearing ‘book’ from you!” she said.

“Thanks very much,” Stephen answered drily.

Her nerves were on edge; every little thing jarred upon her; she began to think herself neglected, miserable, and to long for congenial companionship. Stephen never was in time for meals; he ignored both gongs; she had always to go and fetch him.