Neither was happy, neither could speak of their unhappiness to anyone. Stephen knew now that Elizabeth was fighting to keep him away from her; that hurt almost unbearably. There seemed to be pitfalls all about him; one wrong step, he felt, would land him in one of them. He clung to the hope that Elizabeth was suffering from the depressing after-effects of influenza. She would get over it in time, if he were inconsiderate now, and forced her to yield to him, something terrible might happen to their marriage. He was not a fool; he could feel that disaster was hovering about them. If he were gentle and kind, they might come safely through this stormy period. Elizabeth was so young and so fragile, so easily scared; he could only wait, he thought. She should not be forced into submission; she made it impossible for him to talk to her, reasonably, as he would have liked to have done.

As for Wendell, it was easy to see that he was attracted to Elizabeth. That Elizabeth had, or could ever have, a more tender feeling towards him than friendship was impossible. That conviction was deeply rooted. Stephen could see no danger in allowing Wendell to visit them, if Elizabeth wanted it. Of all men, he, with his too-soft eyes, and too-full lips, was the least likely to exercise fascination over Elizabeth. When she awoke to a full realisation of love it would be for her husband, never for Wendell. You could not think of Elizabeth and Wendell together: it was loathsome, yes, ludicrous too. It was not as though Elizabeth’s code of morals was elastic; it was rigid and strict. Wendell, Stephen felt, could never be a danger.

So when, in March, he invited himself to Queen’s Halt for a long week-end, Stephen said,

“What do you feel about it, darling?”

“Oh—I don’t really care!” she said. “Just as you like, Stephen.”

“No, just as you like. If you think it’ll be a nuisance we’ll put him off.”

“I don’t think we ought to do that—I’d rather like to see him again. He’s fun.”

“Righto, ’Lisbeth,” he said.

Chapter Eighteen

Wendell arrived on Friday, in a new car. He said that he had had her all out last week and she touched seventy. Not bad for a little bus like that, was it? He brought Elizabeth an enormous box of chocolates, and some hothouse roses. She took them as graceful gifts to the hostess, and thanked him very much. Then he said, By Jove, topping place this, what? and admired the what-you-may-call it in the hall.

“Oh, the warming-pan!” Elizabeth said.

“Yes. Jolly picturesque and quaint, an’ all that. Hullo! Nice little spaniel, that. Envy you this place, Ramsay, ’pon my word I do. ’Spose you’re a great gardener, Betty, what?”