“That’s all right. Put your feet up. Shall I make you some black coffee?”

“My God, if you would!”

She hurried into the little kitchen, came back with cups. At first Edward lay with closed eyes. Then he opened them and watched her. She moved briskly. The coffee was soon ready. Surprisingly soon. Margaret was never to be taken unawares. She’d made Edward coffee before.

“Here you are,” she smiled.

Edward tried to raise himself on one elbow. Sank back with a groan.

“I’m all done in.”

“Let me,” said Margaret.

Smiling, she slipped an arm under his shoulder, raised him gently with a strong movement, brought the cup to his lips. Edward drank greedily. Then he lay back. She sat down on the edge of the couch and smiled at him. Edward’s gaze cleared.

“Margaret.”

“Yes, Edward.”

“I want to ask you a question.”

“Ask away.”

“Why”—Edward brought out the words with his peculiar deliberation—“are you so damned good to me?”

“Am I?”

“You are. Christ alone knows why. Well, I want to know too.”

Margaret turned away her eyes.

“Does it matter particularly?”

But she spoke very low, hardly above a whisper. And Edward had made a sudden violent movement, as though he were trying to break a mesh of ropes. He raised himself on his elbow. Almost shouted:

“Margaret!”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Take me away from here.”

She smiled.

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Out of this damned town. Out of this cursed country.”

“All right.”

“You will? You promise?”

“Yes,” she soothed him. “Of course.”

“How soon?”

“As soon as possible.”

“To-morrow?”

“We couldn’t start to-morrow.”

“But soon?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God!”

He raised himself, half turned, let his head sink back into her lap. Looked up at her with a strange, unhappy, boyish smile.

“You really mean it?”

“Of course, my dear. If you really want it.”

Edward lay still for a second. Then he said quite distinctly, but half to himself, as though he were perfectly sober:

“I wonder if you can bring it off.”

“I’m going to try,” said Margaret, and her fingers moved softly through his hair. She couldn’t look down at him. Her lips were trembling. The tears smarting in her eyes. So he had said it. At last.

*   *   *

Like a prisoner strapped ready for torture, Eric lay rigid, his fists clenched, in his narrow bed. Liar! he thought. Hypocrite! Liar! Cheat! He stared furiously at the dark ceiling. I was jealous. The whole thing was nothing but jealousy.

I’m ten thousand times worse than Edward, Eric thought. Ten million times worse.

Jealous; jealous; jealous!

I’m not fit to live.

*   *   *

It was more than three weeks later that Eric received a card postmarked from the South of France. A staring blue bay backed by a sky the colour of strawberry ice-cream. The tinting of sea and sky overlapped a little at the edge, staining the horizon puce.

All it said was: