“Yes, when we were kids.  But supposing now I ever didn’t, would it matter?  You see, I’m stupid, and caring—­caring awfully—­might make me stupider. Have people got to understand each other?”

To that she replied astonishingly, “Are you quite sure you understand about Ferdie?”

“Ferdie?”

“Yes.”  She turned her face full to him.  “I don’t know whether you know about it. I didn’t till Mother told me the other day.  I’m Ferdie’s daughter.

“Did you know?”

“Oh, Lord, yes.  I’ve known it for—­oh, simply ever so long.”

“Who told you?”

“Dorothy, I think.  But I guessed it because of something he said once about seeing ghosts.”

“I wonder if you know how I feel about it?  I want you to understand that.  I’m not a bit ashamed of it.  I’m proud.  I’m glad I’m Ferdie’s daughter, not Bartie’s....  I’d take his name, so that everybody should know I was his daughter, only that I like Uncle Anthony’s name best.  I’m glad Mother loved him.”

“So am I, Ronny.  I know I shouldn’t have liked Bartie’s daughter.  Bartie’s daughter wouldn’t have been you.”

He took her in his arms and held her face against his face.  And it was as if Desmond had never been.

A little while ago he had hated Desmond because she had come before Veronica; she had taken what belonged to Veronica, the first tremor of his passion, the irrecoverable delight and surprise.  And now he knew that, because he had not loved her, she had taken nothing.

* * * * *

“Do you love me?”

“Do you love me?”

“You know I love you.”

“You know.  You know.”

What they said was new and wonderful to them as if nobody before them had ever thought of it.

Yet that night, all over the Heath, in hollows under the birch-trees, and on beds of trampled grass, young lovers lay in each other’s arms and said the same thing in the same words:  “Do you love me?” “You know I love you!” over and over, in voices drowsy and thick with love.

* * * * *

“There’s one thing I haven’t thought of,” said Nicky.  “And that’s that damned strike.  If it hits Daddy badly we may have to wait goodness knows how long.  Ages we may have to.”

“I’d wait all my life if I could have you in the last five seconds of it.  And if I couldn’t, I’d still wait.”

And presently Veronica remembered Michael.

“Why did you ask me whether Mick had said anything?”

“Because I thought you ought to know about it before you—­Besides, if he had, we should have had to wait a bit before we told him.”

It seemed that there was nothing to prevent them marrying to-morrow if they liked.  The strike, Anthony said, couldn’t hit him as badly as all that.

He and Frances sat up till long past midnight, talking about their plans, and the children’s plans.  It was all settled.  The first week in August they would go down to Morfe for the shooting.  They would stay there till the first week in September.  Nicky and Veronica would be married the first week in October.  And they would go to France and Belgium and Germany for their honeymoon.