“Darling, it was a wonderful idea of yours! I’m getting on splendidly now.”

“Do hurry up and let me have some to read,” she said, elated at her success.

He looked eagerly up at her.

“Do you really want it, ’Lisbeth?”

“I shouldn’t say so if I didn’t.”

“Yes, you would,” he retorted audaciously, but smiled as he said it.

It was an understanding smile; instead of being hurt she returned it.

“That’s a mean attack,” she said. “Haven’t I been frank with you?”

“You have, darling, and I apologise. Last night you said if I was going to cross out things and write squiggles on top you wouldn’t read another word.”

“Yes, and I meant it, too. Don’t let the butter ooze on to the carpet, for goodness’ sake!”

“Sorry. Did it?”

“No, but I was afraid it might.”

“Oh, I see. Prevention’s better than cure. Did I tell you I had a letter from Cynthia this morning?”

“No. Anything interesting?”

“She’s had laryngitis and Anthony wants to take her away.”

“Poor thing! Where are they going?”

“Nowhere, because their nurse is away on a holiday and there’s no one to look after Christopher. Rotten luck, isn’t it?”

Slowly Elizabeth put her cup down. She glanced down at Stephen.

“Do you think—I mean, would Cynthia mind—if we offered to take Christopher?”

“We—? I say, that’s an idea! You’re full of them today, ’Lisbeth. Wouldn’t it be a bore for you, though?”

“I’d love to take care of Christopher. Only—Cynthia might not like it. I—I hardly like to offer . . .”

Bewilderment was in Stephen’s face.

“Why not? Why should Cynthia mind?”

She flushed.

“She—doesn’t like me. Oh, Stephen, you know! Because of our separation—and—and Charles—and all that.”

“And what has any of that got to do with Cynthia?” Stephen asked dangerously.

“I knew by her face—when she saw—Charles with me— what she thought.”

“If she thought anything filthy she can go to hell and take her thoughts with her,” Stephen said calmly.

“Well, really, Stephen!” Elizabeth expostulated.

“Whatever she thought she doesn’t think now. That’s a bit involved. Anyway, she knows Wendell wasn’t your lover. You wouldn’t be here if he had been.”

She looked at him curiously.

“Wouldn’t you—have taken me back?”

He stared into the fire; his profile was hard all at once, and stern.

“I don’t know. I— Don’t let’s talk of such a thing, ’Lisbeth. It makes me feel ill.”

Woman-like she pressed the point.

“No, but would you, Stephen?”

“What, be ill? Probably.”

“Don’t be so tiresome! Would you have taken me back?”

He knelt suddenly, and took her hands in his.