And now people were coupling her name with that of Wendell: sniggering probably, exaggerating surely. They were saying, My dear, have you heard? Stephen Ramsay’s wife has gone off with another man! Gloating over it . . . glad of an excuse to be scandalous. That was what Stephen would have to bear when he came home. Nudges, and whispering, and side-long glances cast in his direction. It wasn’t only on herself she had brought shame, but on him too. And he’d been generous in letting her go. This was how she had repaid him.

Wendell had said, He’s far more likely to set detectives on to you. Would he do that? She felt very cold. No, he was too chivalrous, too generous. He’d hear her explanation first. He’d believe her, too. She thought that he would believe her.

She became conscious of cigarette smoke lying heavy on the air. Wendell’s Turkish cigarettes. She dragged herself up and went to the window, throwing it open to let out this reminder of his presence. Her head was aching, her cheeks still hot. She stood at the open window, letting the cool air sweep into the room.

The next day brought a long letter from Wendell, abjectly apologising for his “unpardonable behaviour,” imploring her to forgive him and let things be as they were. He had not meant a word he had said; he was kicking himself for his caddishness; it was Betty’s beauty and his love for her that had made him lose his head.

She wrote carefully in answer. Their friendship was at an end; it would be impossible to pick up the. threads again. She realised that she had been at fault; she was sorry, but it would be better for them not to meet again.

He called, bringing flowers; Elizabeth sent them back. Again he wrote; she did not answer his letter. A last letter came telling her that she had broken his heart and that he was going to Scotland for the shooting.

Lawrence and Miss Arden were back in town, Lawrence with tanned cheeks and a country manner. Miss Arden wrung her hands over Elizabeth’s poor health, and said again and again, Why didn’t you send for me?

Miss Arden tried to discover Elizabeth’s plans for the future; Elizabeth, whose mind was in a chaotic state, hardly knew herself.

“Darling,” Miss Arden said, “you must see that this sort of an existence is impossible. I’m not suggesting for an instant that you return to that man, but you’re far too young to live alone.”

“I expect I shall go into a tiny flat,” Elizabeth said vaguely. “I could quite well afford it now that I’ve got on so with my typing.”