And Francey listened, for the most part critical and dispassionate, but with sudden gestures of unmotivated tenderness:  as when in the midst of his dissertation on a theory of insanity and crime she had kissed him.

Sometimes for them both the prose and poetry of their relationship met and clasped hands.  That was when they took their walk down Harley Street to have another look at the house which was one day to be adorned with the celebrated brass plates.  At present it was solidly occupied by several eminent-sounding medical gentlemen who would have to be ruthlessly dislodged when their time came.

For it was the best house in the street, and, of course, the Doctors Robert and Francey Stonehouse would have to have the best.

And once they quarrelled about nothing at all, or about everything—­they hardly knew.  It was an absurd quarrel, which blazed up and went out again like fire in stubble.  Perhaps they had waited too long for their allotted hour together—­dreamed too much about it, so that when it came they could hardly bear it, and almost longed for it to be over.  And in the midst of it Mr. Ricardo drifted in on one of his strange, distressful visits to Christine, and drove them out of doors to roam the drowsy Sunday streets, hand in hand, like any other pair of vulgar, homeless lovers.  For Francey could not stay when Mr. Ricardo came.  His hatred of her was a burning, poisonous sore that gave no peace to any of them.

“It’s a sort of jealousy,” Robert reflected.  “We three have always held together.  He’s had no one else to care about.  And now you’ve come, and he thinks you want to take me away from him.”

“I do,” Francey said unexpectedly.

“Not in the way he means.”

“You don’t know——­”

“He’s been good to me.  I’d never have got through without him.  I can’t have him hurt.  And you will fight him, Francey.  I know he’s crabbed and bitter, but so would you be if you’d been twisted out of shape all your life.  And you only do it for the fun of the thing.  Fundamentally, you think alike.”

“We don’t, that’s just it.  I’m sorry for him, and if it had been anything less vital I’d compromise—­he’d compromise, too, perhaps.  We’d both lie low and look pleasant about our differences.  But as it is we can’t help ourselves.  We’ve got to stand up and fight——­”

“I say, that sounds jolly dramatic.”

“It is rather.”

“Next thing you’ll be saying you believe in God.”

“Well, I do——­”

He stopped short and let go her hand.  He was physically ashamed and uncomfortable.  He tried to laugh, but for the moment they were face to face, and he could not mistake her seriousness.  They were like strangers, peering at each other through the grey dusk.

“Look here, Francey, dearest, you don’t expect me to believe that?  You’re just joking, aren’t you?  You’re—­you’re a modern woman, with a scientific training, too.  You can’t believe in an old, worn-out myth.”