“Out there!” said James elliptically, “who knows what cut-throats!  You look for his revolver!  Don’t go to bed without.  You ought to have Warmson to sleep in the house.  I’ll see him myself tomorrow.”

They were touched by this declaration, and Emily said comfortably:  “That’s right, James, we won’t have any nonsense.”

“Ah!” muttered James darkly, “I can’t tell.”

The advent of Warmson with fish diverted conversation.

When, directly after dinner, Winifred went over to kiss her father good-night, he looked up with eyes so full of question and distress that she put all the comfort she could into her voice.

“It’s all right, Daddy, dear; don’t worry.  I shan’t need anyone—­he’s quite bland.  I shall only be upset if you worry.  Good-night, bless you!”

James repeated the words, “Bless you!” as if he did not quite know what they meant, and his eyes followed her to the door.

She reached home before nine, and went straight upstairs.

Dartie was lying on the bed in his dressing-room, fully redressed in a blue serge suit and pumps; his arms were crossed behind his head, and an extinct cigarette drooped from his mouth.

Winifred remembered ridiculously the flowers in her window-boxes after a blazing summer day; the way they lay, or rather stood—­parched, yet rested by the sun’s retreat.  It was as if a little dew had come already on her burnt-up husband.

He said apathetically:  “I suppose you’ve been to Park Lane.  How’s the old man?”

Winifred could not help the bitter answer:  “Not dead.”

He winced, actually he winced.

“Understand, Monty,” she said, “I will not have him worried.  If you aren’t going to behave yourself, you may go back, you may go anywhere.  Have you had dinner?”

No.

“Would you like some?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Imogen offered me some.  I didn’t want any.”

Imogen!  In the plenitude of emotion Winifred had forgotten her.

“So you’ve seen her?  What did she say?”

“She gave me a kiss.”

With mortification Winifred saw his dark sardonic face relaxed.  ‘Yes!’ she thought, ‘he cares for her, not for me a bit.’

Dartie’s eyes were moving from side to side.

“Does she know about me?” he said.

It flashed through Winifred that here was the weapon she needed.  He minded their knowing!

“No.  Val knows.  The others don’t; they only know you went away.”

She heard him sigh with relief.

“But they shall know,” she said firmly, “if you give me cause.”

“All right!” he muttered, “hit me!  I’m down!”

Winifred went up to the bed.  “Look here, Monty!  I don’t want to hit you.  I don’t want to hurt you.  I shan’t allude to anything.  I’m not going to worry.  What’s the use?” She was silent a moment.  “I can’t stand any more, though, and I won’t!  You’d better know.  You’ve made me suffer.  But I used to be fond of you.  For the sake of that....”  She met the heavy-lidded gaze of his brown eyes with the downward stare of her green-grey eyes; touched his hand suddenly, turned her back, and went into her room.