But a courtship under the rose, for before others he hid his love like a crime, treating Isabel as good humoured elderly men treat pretty children.  Where the astringent memory of Lizzie came into play, Lawrence was dumb.  The one aspect of that fiasco which he had not fully confessed to Isabel—­though only because it was not then prominent in his mind—­was its scorching, its lacerating effect on his pride.  But for it he would probably have flung discretion to the winds, confided in Laura, in Bernard, in Val, pursued Isabel with a hot and headstrong impetuosity:  but it had left the entire tract of sex in him one seared and branded scar.

Even when they were alone together, which rarely happened—­Val saw to that—­he had as yet made no open love to her:  it was difficult to do so when one was never secure from interruption for ten minutes together.  Of late he had begun to chafe against Val’s cobweb barriers.  Three months is a long time! and patience was not a virtue that came natural to Lawrence Hyde.

He found Laura cutting off dead roses, a sufficiently harmless occupation, one would have thought:  a trifle thinner, a trifle paler than when he came:  and were those grey threads in her brown hair?

“Berns wants you,” said Lawrence.  “I’ve done such an awful thing, Laura—­”

Again that flash of imperfect perception!  What was going on under the surface at Wanhope, that Laura should turn as white as her handkerchief?  He hurried on as if he had noticed nothing.  “Bernard and I have been laying our heads together.  Do you know what I’m going to do?  Run you up to town to see the new Moore play at Hadow’s.”

“Delightful!” Already Laura had recovered herself:  her smile was as sweet as ever, and as serene.  “Was it your idea or Bernard’s?”

“Mine. . .  I say, Laura:  Bernard is all right, isn’t he?”

“In what way, all right?”

Lawrence reddened, regretting his indiscretion.  “I’ve fancied his manner queer, once or twice.”

“There is a close connection, of course, between the spine and the brain,” said Laura quietly.  “But my husband is perfectly sane. . . .  Oh my dear Lawrence, of course I forgive you! what is there to forgive?  I only wish I could come tonight, but I’m afraid it can’t be managed—­”

“She says it can’t be managed,” said Lawrence, standing aside for Laura to pass in.  “Pitch into her, Bernard.  Hear her talk like a woman of sixty!  Are you frightened of the night air, Laura?  Or would Chilmark chatter?”

“It might, if you and I went alone,” Laura smiled.

“Make up a party then,” suggested Lawrence.  “Get the Bendishes to come too.”

She shook her head.  “They’re dining with the Dean.”

“And decanal dinner-parties can’t be thrown over.”  When he made the suggestion, Lawrence had known that the Bendishes were dining with the Dean.  “Some one else, then.”