Would she inquire:  “With whom?”

He rehearsed these things in spite of himself.

On Saturday he returned to lunch.  It was his old way on Saturdays, and the afternoon was free.  A soft November day breathed beneficently over London.  In the morning, he hardly knew why, he asked the senior partner whether he could take out a car to-day as well as Sunday.  He drove home to Hampstead in the blue Runaway, with its silver fittings winking in the sun, and garaged it near by.

He came in rather morosely, and was thoughtful over lunch, saying little, till at the end of the meal he lifted his eyes to his wife’s tranquil face and said suddenly: 

“I brought a car home.  I want to take you for a run.”

“And me, Daddy!” George shouted, but his father shook his head.

“No,” he said doggedly, “not to-day.  I just want mother.”

“I’d love to come,” said Marie readily.

Osborn was in a strange humour, like a fractious child, and she did more than bear with it.  She ignored it altogether.  As they drove out of London, the business of threading the maze of traffic kept him from talking even if he would, but when they had run into silence and the peace of the country, he was still quiet, gazing straight in front of him, his hat jammed down over his eyes and his jaw set rigid.  At last he heard her voice saying: 

“Isn’t it lovely?  I wish we had a car.”

“We can have one if you like.”

He drove on fast.  Sometime this afternoon, when she had tasted the joy of the day and the comfort of the car, he would tell her about Sunday—­no details, only the bleak blank fact: 

“I shall be away all to-morrow; I’m motoring down to Brighton.”

They went through Epsom and Leatherhead to more rustic villages beyond, and he pulled up at last on the summit of a great hill, fringed on either side with trees.

“This is a jolly place to stop for tea,” he said, breaking his long silence.  “I’ve got everything here.”

As he pulled out a tea basket from the back of the car she watched him calmly.  She still thought him excessively good-looking.  In their engaged days they had often escaped into the country—­but on foot—­and picnicked together; each had known the other to be the most wonderful person in the world.  Now that love had passed the memory was well worth keeping, and she enjoyed it quietly as she sat in the car, looking down upon the back of his head bent over his task.  He sat down again, opening the basket between them, and set up the spirit stove and lighted it for her to boil the minute kettle upon it.  While she did this, it was his turn to watch her; and presently from his moroseness he said in a very soft voice: 

“It’s like old days, isn’t it?”

“Only we’re more gorgeous.”

“You’re enjoying it?”

“Immensely.  Why wouldn’t you take George?”

“I didn’t want him.  Did you?”