“Please go away, Edmund. You’ve no business to come here.”

“You’re wrong,” said Edmund triumphantly. “I have business here. Mrs. Lucas rang up my mamma this morning and said she had a good many vegetable marrows.”

“Masses of them.”

“And would we like to exchange a pot of honey for a vegetable marrow or so.”

“That’s not a fair exchange at all! Vegetable marrows are quite unsaleable at the moment—everybody has such a lot.”

“Naturally. That’s why Mrs. Lucas rang up. Last time, if I remember rightly, the exchange suggested was some skim milk—skim milk, mark you—in exchange for some lettuces. It was then very early in the season for lettuces. They were about a shilling each.”

Phillipa did not speak.

Edmund tugged at his pocket and extracted a pot of honey.

“So here,” he said, “is my alibi. Used in a loose and quite indefensible meaning of the term. If Mrs. Lucas pops her bust round the door of the potting shed, I’m here in quest of vegetable marrows. There is absolutely no question of dalliance.”

“I see.”

“Do you ever read Tennyson?” inquired Edmund conversationally. “Not very often.”

“You should. Tennyson is shortly to make a comeback in a big way. When you turn on your wireless in the evening it will be the Idylls of the King you will hear and not interminable Trollope. I always thought the Trollope pose was the most unbearable affectation. Perhaps a little of Trollope, but not to drown in him. But speaking of Tennyson, have you read Maud?”

“Once, long ago.”

“It’s got some points about it.” He quoted softly:

“‘Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null.’ That’s you, Phillipa.”

“Hardly a compliment!”

“No, it wasn’t meant to be. I gather Maud got under the poor fellow’s skin just like you’ve got under mine.”

“Don’t be absurd, Edmund.”

“Oh, hell, Phillipa, why are you like you are? What goes on behind your splendidly regular features? What do you think? What do you feel? Are you happy, or miserable, or frightened, or what? There must be something.”

Phillipa said quietly:

“What I feel is my own business.”

“It’s mine, too. I want to make you talk. I want to know what goes on in that quiet head of yours. I’ve a right to know. I have really. I didn’t want to fall in love with you. I wanted to sit quietly and write my book. Such a nice book, all about how miserable the world is. It’s frightfully easy to be clever about how miserable everybody is. And it’s all a habit, really. Yes, I’ve suddenly become convinced of that. After reading a life of Burne Jones.”

Phillipa had stopped pricking out. She was staring at him with a puzzled frown.

“What has Burne Jones got to do with it?”