‘But here’s the old confusion.  I am a man; you are a woman.’

’I can’t see that that makes any difference.  A woman ought to go about just as freely as a man.  I don’t think it’s just.  When I have done my work at home I think I ought to be every bit as free as you are—­every bit as free.  And I’m sure, Edmund, that love needs freedom if it is to remain love in truth.’

He looked at her keenly.

’That’s a dreadful thing for you to say.  So, if I disapprove of your becoming the kind of woman that acknowledges no law, you will cease to love me?’

‘What law do you mean?’

’Why, the natural law that points out a woman’s place, and’—­he added, with shaken voice—­’commands her to follow her husband’s guidance.’

‘Now you are angry.  We mustn’t talk about it any more just now.’

She rose and poured out a glass of water.  Her hand trembled as she drank.  Widdowson fell into gloomy abstraction.  Later, as they lay side by side, he wished to renew the theme, but Monica would not talk; she declared herself too sleepy, turned her back to him, and soon slept indeed.

That night the weather became stormy; a roaring wind swept the Channel, and when day broke nothing could be seen but cloud and rain.  Widdowson, who had rested little, was in a heavy, taciturn mood; Monica, on the other hand, talked gaily, seeming not to observe her companion’s irresponsiveness.  She was glad of the wild sky; now they would see another aspect of island life—­the fierce and perilous surges beating about these granite shores.

They had brought with them a few books, and Widdowson, after breakfast, sat down by the fire to read.  Monica first of all wrote a letter to her sister; then, as it was still impossible to go out, she took up one of the volumes that lay on a side-table in their sitting-room, novels left by former lodgers.  Her choice was something or other with yellow back.  Widdowson, watching all her movements furtively, became aware of the pictured cover.

‘I don’t think you’ll get much good out of that,’ he remarked, after one or two efforts to speak.

‘No harm, at all events,’ she replied good-humouredly.

’I’m not so sure.  Why should you waste your time?  Take “Guy Mannering,” if you want a novel.’

‘I’ll see how I like this first.’

He felt himself powerless, and suffered acutely from the thought that Monica was in rebellion against him.  He could not understand what had brought about this sudden change.  Fear of losing his wife’s love restrained him from practical despotism, yet he was very near to uttering a definite command.

In the afternoon it no longer rained, and the wind had less violence.  They went out to look at the sea.  Many people were gathered about the harbour, whence was a fine view of the great waves that broke into leaping foam and spray against the crags of Sark.  As they stood thus Occupied, Monica heard her name spoken in a friendly voice—­that of Mrs. Cosgrove.