But they were happy together. They went everywhere, playing a game that they were Americans seeing Paris for the first time. They bought horn-rimmed glasses and conversed in what they imagined to be Yankee accents. The joke collapsed rather feebly, however, when they met an extremely nice sculptor from Carolina and had to explain their behaviour.

Soon they crossed to London. Margaret settled at her studio. Edward took a flat. They went out everywhere together—were always invited as a married pair. They made endless jokes about this—particularly Margaret. Mary was really the funniest. Her discretion, her unobtrusive air of giving her blessing, was really funny.

Margaret said:

“Mary’s so sweet. She’s really awfully innocent.”

She added:

“Ah! Edward—if they but knew you as you are.”

This kind of joking made him uneasy. She struck the wrong note; her humour was always slightly strained. They avoided being alone together. At parties they were very bright, playing up to each other like trained actors.

At the villa they’d already discussed what Edward described as “our duty to our neighbours.” As he’d said: “Of course, we must try it one day. One never knows. It might be a success.” And Margaret had laughed: “To think, Edward—I might cure you.”

And so one evening, at the studio, after a particularly hectic party, they’d started—and it had been really very funny and not in the least disgusting—but quite hopeless. They sat up in bed and laughed and laughed. “Oh, Edward!” laughed Margaret—for she was pretty tight, too—“I shall never be able to sleep with a man again. At the critical moment I shall always think of you.”

“I might return the compliment,” said Edward.

*   *   *

In the spring they went south again, stopping several weeks in Paris. They hadn’t been very long at the villa before news came of the General Strike. Edward wanted to return at once.

“But what would you do?” she asked him, half impressed, half amused.

“I don’t know. But I want to be mixed up in this.”

He didn’t even know which side he’d be on. She laughed at him. He was as angry as a boy.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “Something important is happening. There may be a revolution. And you want me to sit here, hiding in this damned country.”

“Why not admit, my dear, that you’re simply bored?”

This stung him. It was partly true. Partly—like all women’s wisdom. He meditated leaving her. If she’d tried to stop him he’d certainly have done so, but she was too cunning. The days passed. At length came a letter from Mary, making the whole thing seem, of course, a tremendous joke. Maurice had driven an engine. She and Anne had worked at a canteen. The letter ended:

“We all missed you. You would so have enjoyed it.”