The mention of Stephen was met with uncomfortable silence. Elizabeth flushed, and spoke again.

“I hope you’ll have good weather for your fishing, father. Is it next week that you go?”

“Wednesday,” Lawrence said. Gloom descended upon him. “Whether I shall enjoy it is another matter. I am almost sorry I allowed myself to be persuaded, into accepting the invitation. When I think of my little girl living apart from her husband, and alone in London.”

“Oh, father, don’t! It sounds like a third-rate novel! ‘Alone in London’ or the ‘Trials of Truda.’”

“I am glad you can see something funny in the situation,” Lawrence said huffily. “Personally I fail to appreciate the humour you appear to find in it.”

“Now, Lawrence!” Miss Arden said warningly. “Elizabeth, won’t you reconsider your decision and come with me to Cousin Flora’s? She’d love to have you. You know she said so.”

“Yes, I know. It’s quite impossible though, and I’ve already written to refuse. It would mean giving up my work, and I don’t want to do that.”

“Oh, that work!” Miss Arden exclaimed. “You’re ruining your health over it. How I wish that you would listen to older and wiser advice!”

“That is the last thing in the world the modern generation thinks of doing,” Lawrence said sarcastically.

Elizabeth smiled, not pleasantly at all, but in a set, furious way.

“As far as I remember, father, Mr. Hengist is considerable older than you are. He advised me to take up some sort of work.”

“Hengist, indeed!” Lawrence snorted.

A week later they had both left London; in an unholy frame of mind Elizabeth said, Thank goodness!

Chapter Twenty-Three

Wendell said,

“Can’t shake hands, Betty, ’cos they’re all over petrol. Can I wash?”

That was rather difficult, because there was no washbasin in the bathroom. Elizabeth explained.

“Well, but I must get the petrol off. Can’t I do it in your room?”

She flushed. Then she thought, I suppose it’s a reasonable request; anyway, why not? She opened the door into her bedroom, and Wendell went in.

“Lovely view,” he remarked, nodding towards the window. “All mews and chimney-pots. Are you going to pour some water out for me with your own fair hands?”

She did so, and he picked up her soap.

“Topping scent. Now I know what makes you smell so heavenly. Betty, I love your sponge!”

She began to feel uncomfortable.

“Do you? Here’s a towel.”

“And your funny little toothbrush. Oh, thanks!” Drying his hands, he wandered to the window, and her dressing-table. “Lots of pots and things. Just like you, Betty. All little and pretty. Have you got one of those priceless powder-puffs? You know—the beaver ones. Girl I know produced one at a dance the other night. Can I look?” He awaited no permission, but lifted the lid of her powder-bowl. She stood in the doorway, fidgeting.

“Do hurry up, Charles!”