“Well, what is it, rogue?”

“Elizabeth-pure-and-simple.”

“That’s excellent,” he said. “What chased the lady away?”

She shook her head.

“I shan’t tell you.”

Mr. Hengist looked at her.

“I believe I know,” he said.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Miss Arden asked. “Come along in to dinner. ...”

“And how,” said Mr. Hengist, shaking out his table-napkin, “is the magnum opus?”

“Ah yes!” Lawrence interjected. “The great book! Does it progress?”

“Fast,” Elizabeth answered. “It’s had some ups and downs, but I think all is plain sailing now.”

“Quite an inspired writer,” Lawrence said meditatively.

Elizabeth thought of the many times she had had to encourage Stephen to go on with the book, and had discussed it with him, and had coaxed away his fits of dissatisfaction. She smiled to herself.

Mr. Hengist was watching her.

“Does he need much inspiration, Elizabeth?”

“Sometimes,” she nodded.

“I don’t quite follow you,” Lawrence said. No one offered to enlighten him, so he changed the subject, and asked Mr. Hengist how he thought Elizabeth was looking.

“Buxom,” Mr. Hengist replied promptly, and there was an outcry. When it had subsided, he said, “All right, I retract. Is Stephen anywhere in the offing, or are you alone, child?”

“I’m alone. I’ve come up to see Auntie and Father, and to do some shopping. I—just thought I’d leave Stephen behind.” Her dimples peeped out.

“Will you have time for anything else?” Mr. Hengist asked.

“It depends on what it is,” she answered.

“Come and dine with me and go to a theatre afterwards.”

“I’d love to. When, please!”

“When you like. What about Saturday?”

“I will. Thank you very much.”

She went to tea with Mrs. Ramsay, the next day, and was welcomed with open arms. Cynthia came in the middle of tea, and although she was not very cordial she did not say anything unkind, nor did she sneer to her mother when Elizabeth had gone.

“Cynny, she’s blossomed forth.”

“Urn! Well?”

“Darling, I’m feeling incurably sentimental. She’s in love with Stephen.”

Cynthia threw the end of her cigarette into the fire.

“Is she really? Why has she left him at the Halt then?”

“I think she’s flirting with him,” smiled Mrs. Ramsay. “Trying to make him come part of the way to meet her.”

“What if he doesn’t? He may not understand.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “I believe she’ll go all the way. Probably in a rush.”

“Not she.”

“She will, Cyn, she will. I think I want to cry. I’m— I’m thinking of the awful strained look in Stephen’s eyes.”

Cynthia put out her hand quickly, and laid it over one of Mrs. Ramsay’s.

“If what you say is true, mater; it’ll go.”

“Well, young lady,” said Mr. Hengist, “you’re very gay. How’s Elizabeth-Anne?”

“Dead,” said Elizabeth, sparkling. “The funeral took place last month.”

“Oh? Why then, exactly?”