But when, reluctantly, he suggested the change, her heart leaped within her. Once again she could be private, and alone. Only when she slept by herself did she realise to the full how she hated to have Stephen with her. She had borne it because she had not the courage, morally, to protest; she felt now that she could never resume the old relations.

And yet, dual to this feeling, came the wave of jealousy whenever Nina visited them. That was often; it seemed that Nina was more intimate with this house, and with Stephen, than she could ever be. Nina wanted to be friends; she wanted Elizabeth to come and see her as often as she came to Queen’s Halt. It was not in Elizabeth’s nature to do so. She could not be friends with Nina; they were not akin, and Nina knew so much. She could not even take part in a general conversation when Nina was there. She did not understand Nina’s conversation, she could not follow her allusions. She tried; she even pretended that she recognised some obscure quotation, but she knew, miserably, that Nina was not deceived.

Nina seemed to be necessary to Stephen, too. He had always some question to put to her, some point on which he wanted her advice. He read passages to Elizabeth, and asked which she preferred. She did not know. When Nina came Stephen put them before her, and the result was very different.

“Nina, I want your opinion. This—or this?”

Then Nina would read, and as soon as she had read she knew which variant was best.

“My dear old Stephen, are you going in for Euphuism?” she would say mockingly, flipping one sheet towards him.

It was extraordinary how his face could light up.

“You think that? Yes, you’re right. Good lord, why didn’t I see it?”

Nina was always ready with her criticism; evidently Stephen respected it. Nina would look up from the manuscript, point to a word and say,

“I almost think I’d prefer the Norman word here, old man. You’ve scratched it out, but it’s a nicer rhythm.”

Sometimes he disagreed, and they would argue; sometimes they would discuss situations in the book which Elizabeth thought too frank to be mentioned. And always Nina embraced her in the discussion.

“Elizabeth, can you convince Stephen that no girl would behave as Caroline does with Carlyle?”

That aspect of it had never struck Elizabeth; she only knew that Caroline’s behaviour shocked her.

“I don’t care for that part of the book, I must say,” she answered.

“No, because it’s false. Norman’s misdemeanours aren’t great enough to make her go off with Carlyle, Stephen. Do you think so, Elizabeth?”

“No,” Elizabeth said. “Because Caroline didn’t seem to be that sort of girl. I thought at first that she was quite nice.”