“Glad you like it, ’Lisbeth.” His lips brushed her wrist. “Any news?”

“Heaps. Tell me yours first.”

“It would bore you. Purely business.”

“It wouldn’t bore me,” Elizabeth said. “Please tell!”

“Well, the biggest and best piece of news is that I’ve signed a contract with an American firm of publishers. For the new book.”

“Stephen, how wonderful! Who are they?”

“Crosby, Thompson Company.” He went into details. “And, ’Lisbeth, I’m going to have a shot at dramatising ‘Caraway Seeds.’ Think it could be done?”

She was almost as excited as he was; her eyes shone; she clapped her hands.

“What fun! Of course it could be done! As soon as you’ve absolutely finished the new book, let’s go and see lots of plays and take notes about stage-craft. Isn’t Mater pleased?”

“Thrilled to the core. She sent her love, by the way, and said that she was coming to pay us a visit soon. Now let me have your news.”

“It won’t sound much after yours. But prepare yourself for a tragedy. Two of the ducklings are dead.”

“Not Samuel?” he said.

“No, thank goodness. Samuel is as perky as ever. I don’t know what went wrong with the others, and all Nana said was, Ah, well!”

“How unfeeling!”

“Wasn’t it? The other piece of news is that Maisie Fletcher has a baby-boy. Mr. Fletcher’s as proud as a peacock about it.”

“Oh!” Stephen said. Then, rather drearily, he said, “Lucky chap.”

Elizabeth’s eyes were veiled by her lashes.

“Flo’s going rather lame. She picked up a thorn, and it was rather deeply embedded. I managed to get it out, though, didn’t I, Flo my darling?”

Stephen stroked the dog’s silky head absent-mindedly There fell a silence. The maid came to clear the tea away, and Elizabeth picked up her work-bag.

The days slipped by; it seemed to Stephen that Elizabeth had subtly changed. Again and again he was struck by an intangible something in her attitude, and would stare at her, puzzled. It was almost as though she were coquetting with him, only that was hardly possible. She had never done it; he did not think it was in her nature. But whether she was coquetting or not, the change in her made it doubly hard for him to preserve his friendly calm towards her. One moment she was aloof, the next tantalizingly near. Nothing could have been sweeter than her treatment of him when, for two days, he was suffering from neuralgia. She hovered about with eau-de-cologne, and she was always ready to shake up the cushions. She wore a strange smile, too, so tiny that he wondered whether it really was a smile. It fascinated him, but his arms ached to hold her.

She was thinking, This is when he’s helpless and docile, dependent on me. I like it.