“Come and get warm,” said Isabel.  She saw that she had startled and distressed her husband, and she drew him down into an immense armchair by the fire, a man’s chair, spacious and soft.  “Is there room for me too?” She slipped into it beside him and threw her arms round his neck.  Lawrence held her lightly and passively.  Not once during their engagement had she so surrendered herself to him for more than a moment, and he dared not take advantage of his opportunities for fear of losing her again.  But Isabel smiled at him with shut eyes.  “All my heart,” she murmured; “don’t be afraid, I’m not going to slip through your fingers now . . .  I love you too, too much . . .  Val would say it was wrong to care so much for any one.”

Val again!  Lawrence lifted her eyelashes with his finger.  “Isabel, why are you haunted by Val now?  I don’t want you to think of any one but me.”

“Are you jealous of the dead?”

“Not I!” his voice rang out harsh with passion:  “with you in my arms why should I be jealous of any one in heaven or earth?”

“Val would say that was wrong too. . . .  Lawrence, do you remember your first wedding night?”

“Well enough.”

“Was Lizzie beautiful?”

“I thought so then.  She was a tall, well-made piece:  black hair, blue eyes, buxom and plenty of colour.  I was shy of her because—­ it’s a curious fact—­she was my first experience of your sex:  but she was not shy with me, though I believe she too was—­ technically—­innocent.  Even at the time I was conscious of something wanting—­some grace, some reserve, some economy of effect.  She was of a coming-on disposition, very amorous and towardly.”

“Val would call that coarse.”

“Probably.  Do you object?  You asked for it.”

“Not a bit.  I don’t mind your telling me any thing that’s a fact.  Bad thoughts are different, but facts, good or bad, coarse or refined, are the stuff the world’s made of, and why should we shut our eyes to them?  I like to take life as it comes without expurgation.  Lawrence, Lizzie never had any children, did she?”

“By me?”

“Yes.”

“No, our married life didn’t last long.  I should have warned you, my dear, if I had had any responsibilities of that description.”

“So you would—­I forgot that.”  Isabel lay silent a moment, nestling her closed eyelids against his throat.  “Lawrence, my darling, I don’t want to hurt you; but tell me, did she have any children after she left you?”

“Yes—­one, a boy:  Rendell’s.”

“What became of him after Rendell died?”

“When it became impossible to leave him with Lizzie I sent him to school.  He spends his holidays with my agent here at Farringay.  He’s quite a nice little chap, and good looking, like Arther, and by the gossip of the neighbourhood I’m supposed to be his father.  Do you mind leaving it at that?  It’s no worse for him and less ignominious for me.”