By and by his nurse came down to her, a young hard-looking woman with tired eyes.  She had little comfort to give, but what she gave Laura never forgot, because it was the truth without any conventional or sentimental gloss.  “You’re having a bad time with him, aren’t you?” she said, coldly sympathetic.  “It won’t last.  Nothing lasts.  You mustn’t think he’s left off caring for you.  I expect he was very fond of you, wasn’t he?  That’s the trouble.  Some men take invalid life nicely and let their wives fuss over them to their hearts’ content, but Major Clowes is one of those tremendously strong masculine men that always want to be top dog.  Besides, you’re young and pretty, if you don’t mind my saying so, and you remind him of what he’s done out of . . .  Twenty-four, isn’t he?  Don’t give way, Mrs. Clowes, you’ve a long road before you; these paralysis cases are a frightful worry, almost as bad for the friends as they are for the patient; but if you play up it’ll get better instead of worse.  He’ll get used to it and so will you.  One gets used to anything.”

Even so:  time goes on and storms subside.  Bernard Clowes came out of the hospital and he and his wife settled down on friendly terms after all.  “It’s not what you bargained for when you married me,” said the cripple with his hard smile.  “However, it’s no good crying over spilt milk, and you must console yourself with the fact that there’s still plenty of money going.  But I wish we’d had a little more time together first.”  He pierced her with his black eyes, restless and fiery.  “I dare say you would have liked a boy.  So should I. Nevermind, my girl, you shan’t miss much else.”

Wanhope, the family property, was buried deep in Wiltshire, three or four miles from a station.  Laura liked the country:  Wanhope let it be, then:  and Wanhope it was, with the additional advantage that Yvonne was at Castle Wharton within a stroll.  Laura liked a wide house and airy rooms, a wide garden, plenty of land, privacy from her neighbours:  all this Wanhope gave her, no slight relief to a girl who had been brought up between Brighton and Monte Carlo.  The place was too big to be run without an agent?  No drawback, the agent:  on the contrary, Clowes looked out for a fellow who would be useful to Laura, a gentleman, an unmarried man, who would be available to ride with her or make a fourth at bridge—­and there by good luck was Val Stafford ready to hand.  Born and reared in the country, though young and untrained, Val brought to his job a wide casual knowledge of local conditions and a natural head for business, and was only too glad to squire Laura in the hunting field.  For Laura must hunt:  as Laura Selincourt she had hunted whenever she was offered a mount, and she was to go on doing as she had always done.  Laura would rather not have hunted, for the freshness of her youth was gone and the strain of her life left her permanently tired, and she pleaded first expense, then propriety.  “Don’t be a damned fool,” replied Bernard Clowes.  So Laura went riding with Val Stafford.