“No, I’m very stupid about it,” Elizabeth said. “The gardener says I pick the wrong flowers. Are you fond of the country?”

“Oh, rather! Country in winter—jolly nice, you know. Hunting, an’ all that. Had a very good day a month ago with the Quorn. Pal o’ mine belongs. D’you hunt?”

“I don’t ride at all. Stephen does, only he doesn’t care for hunting.”

Wendell stared at Stephen.

“What, not really?”

“I’m a conscientious objector,” Stephen said.

“Oh—fox gets a damn fine run for its money,” Wendell said vaguely. “Even chances, don’t you know?”

“I wasn’t really thinking about the fox, but about the mere human.”

Wendell was nonplussed. Queer chap, Ramsay.

“Human? Don’t quite get you.”

“I like to discourage the primeval instinct,” Stephen said.

“Oh—er—quite, quite!” Wendell answered, totally at sea. “You writing chaps always have funny notions. I say, Betty, I brought my golf clubs. You promised to take me round, remember?”

“I think you’d better go with Stephen,” she smiled. “My golf is very little better than my billiards.”

“Then it’s jolly good,” he said stoutly. “Stephen’s got to write his book.”

Next morning she did take him round the golf-course, to prepare him, he said, for his round with Stephen in the afternoon. They did not play very seriously, but they talked a lot.

Wendell, striding along beside Elizabeth, said,

“Not looking awfully fit, are you, Bets? Tired, I mean, and a bit thin.”

She thought how kind it was of him, and how sympathetic, to ask her.

“I had ’flu in January, and I haven’t really got over it yet.”

“Should think it’s pretty dull for you, buried down here, with Stephen writing all day,” he remarked.

“Sometimes it is,” she sighed. “I was brought up in town you see. It’s rather a change.”

“Yes, rather. Rotten for you. Any decent people living here?”

“Oh—well, one or two. They’re quite nice, but not very great friends of mine.”

Wendell nodded, just as though he quite understood. He didn’t ask her to be more explicit; that was so refreshing.

“You ought to get Stephen to take a flat in town,” he said. “Be near your friends, and all that.”

“I don’t think he would,” she said lightly. “He’s so fond of the Halt. He was brought up here, just as I was brought up in town.”

“Very bad luck,” he nodded. “What d’you do with yourself all day?”

That was just it. She didn’t do anything—at least, nothing specific. If only there was something that she could do it would be different. Easier, not so dull and boring.

“Oh, I—exercise the dogs, and do the shopping—some of it—and people call—and that sort of thing.”

“Sounds pretty deadly,” he remarked. “What I mean is, no variety. Any cheery people about?”