“Well,” said Dale, “he has given a promise—­of a sort—­and I shan’t bother him further.”

After that the talk became light again.  As if the strain of her anxiety was more than Mavis Dale could bear for long at a time, she plunged into frivolous discussion, telling Mr. Ridgett of the splendors and beauties of the Abbey House.  It was a show-place.  Its gardens surpassed belief; royal persons came hundreds of miles to look at them.  And the wild historic woodland of Manninglea Chase was famous, it was said, all over Europe.  Talking thus, she seemed as gay and careless as a child of ten.

Mr. Ridgett, puffing his pipe luxuriously, contemplated her animated face with undisguised admiration; and presently Dale felt irritated by the admiring scrutiny.

That was what always happened.  At first he felt pleased that people should admire his wife; but if they seemed to admire her the least little shade too much, he became angry.  In the lanes, in church, anywhere, he froze too attentive glances of admiring males with a most portentous scowl.  It was not that he entertained the faintest doubt of her loyalty and devotion, or of her power to protect herself from improper assiduities; but he loved her so passionately that his blood began to boil at the mere thought of anybody’s having the audacity to court her favor.  Instinctively, on such occasions, words formed themselves in his mind and clamored for utterance on his lips.  “You take care, my fine fellow;” “Hands off, please;” “Let me catch you trying it”—­and so on:  only thought-counters secretly used by himself, and never issued in the currency of spoken words.

Now the internal warmth was just sufficient to make him push back his chair and break up the party.  “Mavis,” he said, rather grimly, “we mustn’t detain Mr. Ridgett from his duties.”  Then he forced a laugh.  “I’m nobody; and so it doesn’t matter how long I sit over my supper.  But we’ve to remember that Mr. Ridgett is the postmaster of Rodchurch.”

II

He went to bed early; but he knew that he would not sleep until the mail-cart had gone.

His wife was sleeping peacefully.  He could feel the warmth of her body close against him; her breath, drawn so lightly and regularly, just touched his face; and he edged away cautiously, seeking space in which to turn without disturbing her.  At immeasurably long periods the church clock chimed the quarters.  That last chime must have been the quarter after eleven.

Every now and then there came a sound that told him of the things that were happening on the ground floor; and in the intervals of silence he began to suffer from an oppressive sense of unreality.  This disruption of the routine of life was so strange as to seem incredible.  They were making up the two big bags for the up mail and the down mail; and he was lying here like a state prisoner, of no account for the time being, while below him his realm remained actively working.