“I am in love,” Elizabeth thought. “I must be in love.”

But how difficult it was to distinguish between love and like! If love meant pleasure felt in Stephen’s company, and pride in his appearance, she loved. If it meant that she would be sorry never again to see Stephen, then surely she loved. Other girls spoke of heartaches, of longing and despair, but how often had she proved that other girls were different? Violent emotions bordered on indecency; the nearest approach to violence that she had achieved was an inward shudder of pure delight when Stephen was masterfully gentle, possessive.

She saw herself fragile and precious in his eyes, and was glad. His tall proportions and his strength pleased her, and she loved to be asked:—

“Who is that awfully good-looking man you danced with the other night?”

She seemed to herself to grow in stature when she answered that it was a great friend, Stephen Ramsay, the novelist. How immeasurably proud she would be if ever she could say: It is my husband.

“Are you in love with Stephen?” Sarah asked her.

It was the first direct allusion; Lawrence and Aunt Anne dealt in innuendoes. Elizabeth blushed deeply and was embarrassed.

“Sarah!”

“Anyway it’s as plain as a pike-staff that he’s head over ears in love with you. Any amount of girls have run after him, but I’ve never seen him so absolutely struck before.”

This was immensely satisfying; Elizabeth’s eyelids drooped, and she smiled.

“You’re damn’ lucky,” said Sarah candidly. “There aren’t many Stephens in this world.”

Elizabeth thought of the scores of men whom she had met, and with whom she had danced.

“No, there aren’t,” she agreed, wondering how it was that she had never thought of this before.

Sarah looked at her curiously.

“Are you in love with him? You needn’t mind telling me.”

“Sarah—you do—ask awful questions!” Elizabeth said. “I—don’t think I know. I like him ever so much—as a friend.”

“Personally,” said Sarah, lighting a fresh cigarette from the stump of her old one, “I should imagine he’d make rather a jolly husband. Bit temperamental perhaps, and fairly selfish, but—can’t think of the word I want—understanding and—considerate.”

“If he’s selfish—but I’m sure he isn’t, Sarah—how can he be considerate?”

“Selfish in the small everyday things of life, like insisting on going to Scotland when you’d set your heart on France, and considerate in the—the bigger things. Have you got what I’m driving at?”

Elizabeth knew from the constrained note in Sarah’s voice that she was talking of something in marriage that was dark and mysterious. Suddenly she longed for the courage to confess ignorance and beg enlightenment. But years of training stood in her way, and the implanted belief that knowledge was wrong.

“Oh, yes!” she said vaguely.