“But why not?”

“You’re not trying to be good.”

“The language of the nursery defeats me, Isabel.”

She flushed.  “That means I’ve hurt you.”

“Naturally.”

“I can’t help it.”  That was truer than he realized, for she could hardly help crying.  She could not soften her refusal, because she was so shaken and exhausted by the strain of it that she dared not venture on more than one sentence at a time.

“I’m very sorry.”

“But as my wife you could be as ‘good’ as you liked?”

“You would not leave me strength for it.”

“I should corrupt you?”

“Yes, I think you would deliberately tempt me. . . .  I think you have tonight.”

“Do you care for no one but yourself?” he flung at her in his vertigo of humiliation and anger.

“No:  I care for God.”

“For God!” Lawrence repeated stupidly:  “what has that to do with your marrying me?”

He heard his own betise as it left his lips, and felt the immeasurable depth of it, but he had not time to retract before every personal consideration was wiped from his mind by a cry from Isabel in a very different accent—­“Lawrence! oh! look at the time!”

She pointed to the dial of an illuminated clock, hanging high in the soft September night.  It was eight minutes to twelve.  “What time did you say our train went?”

They were in Whitehall.  Lawrence caught up the speaking tube.  “Waterloo main entrance—­and drive like the devil, please, we’re late.”

“I thought we had plenty of time?”

“So we had:  so much so that I told the man to drive round and round for a bit.”

“And have we still time?”

“No.”

“We shan’t lose the train?”

“Unless it’s delayed in starting, which isn’t likely.”

“Will the others go on and leave us?”

“Hardly!”

“You don’t mean that Laura won’t get home till tomorrow?  Oh!”

“No.  But don’t look so frightened, no one will blame you—­the responsibility is mine entirely.”

Isabel’s lip curled.  It was for Laura that she felt afraid and not for herself, and surely he might have guessed as much as that!  “Did you do it on purpose?”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon.  That was stupid of me.”

“Very,” said Lawrence with his keen sarcastic smile.

At Waterloo he sprang out, tossed a sovereign to the driver, and made Isabel catch up her skirts and run like a deer.  But before they reached the platform it was after twelve and the rails beyond were empty.  Selincourt and Laura were waiting by the barrier, Selincourt red with impatience, Laura very pale.

“Are you aware you’ve lost the last train down?” said the elder man with ill-concealed anger, as Lawrence, shortening his step, strolled up in apparent tranquillity with Isabel on his arm.  “What on earth has become of you?  We’ve been waiting here for half an hour!”