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Anthony Harrison considered that he had done well when he acquired West End House for his wife Frances, and for his children, Dorothea, Michael, Nicholas and John.

Frances had said that, if he was thinking of her, he needn’t buy a big place, because she didn’t want one.  But he might buy it for the children if he liked.  Anthony had said that she had no idea of what she mightn’t want, once she began to give her mind to it, and that he would like to think of her living in it after he was gone.  Not that he had any intention of going; he was only thirty-six (not much older than Frances) and incurably healthy.  But since his wife’s attention had become absorbed in the children—­to the exclusion of every other interest—­he was always trying to harrow her by the suggestion.  And Frances only laughed at him and told him that he was a silly old thing, and that he needn’t think he was going to get round her that way.

There was no other way open for Anthony; unless he were to go bankrupt or get pneumonia or peritonitis.  Frances would have been the first to acknowledge that illness or misfortune constituted a claim.  And the only things he ever did get were loud, explosive colds in his head which made him a mark for derision.  His business was so sound that not even a revolution or a European war could shake it.  And his appearance was incompatible with his pretensions to pathos.

It would have paid him better to have been small and weedy, or lamentably fat, or to have had a bald place coming, or crow’s feet pointing to grey hairs; for then there might have been a chance for him.  But Anthony’s body was well made, slender and tall.  He had blue eyes and black-brown hair, and the look of an amiable hawk, alert, fiercely benevolent.  Frances couldn’t see any pathos in the kind of figure she happened to admire most, the only kind she would have tolerated in a husband.  And if she had seen any pathos in it she wouldn’t have married it.  Pathos, she said, was all very well in a father, or a brother, or a friend, but in choosing a husband you had to think of your children; and she had wanted boys that would look like Michael and Nicholas and John.

“Don’t you mean,” Anthony had said, “boys that will look like me?”

“I mean,” she had answered, “exactly what I say.  You needn’t be so arrogant.”

Her arrogance had been beyond all bearing since John, the third son, had been born.

And it was Frances, after all, who had made him buy West End House for her own reasons.  Both the day nursery and the night nursery had windows to the south.  It was the kind of house she had always dreamed of living in, and of Michael, or Nicky living in after she and Anthony were gone.  It was not more than seven minutes’ walk from the bottom of the lane to the house where her people lived.  She had to think about the old people when the poor dears had come up to London in order to be thought about.  And it had white storm shutters and a tree of Heaven in the garden.