Physical, and particularly mental illness, was hateful to her.  If the truth be told, it was as much as she could do to overcome the repugnance with which her husband’s presence often inspired her, despite the maternal instinct of which her love for Harold was, for the most part, composed.  In going with him abroad, she was, in truth, atoning for any wrong she may have done him.

Two days later, Mavis occupied many hours in saying a last farewell to her home.  It was one of the October days which she loved, when milk-white clouds sailed lazily across the hazy blue peculiar to the robust ripe age of the year.  This time of year appealed to Mavis, because it seemed as if its mellow wisdom, born of experience, corresponded to a like period in the life of her worldly knowledge.  The prize-bred Jersey cows grazed peacefully in the park grounds.  Now and again, she would encounter an assiduous bee, which was taking advantage of the fineness of the day to pick up any odds and ends of honey which had been overlooked by his less painstaking brethren.  Mavis, with heavy heart, visited stables, dairies, poultry-runs.  These last were well at the back of the house; beyond them, the fields were tipped up at all angles; they sprawled over a hill as if each were anxious to see what was going on in the meadow beneath it.  Followed by Jill and Sally, her lame duck, Mavis went to the first of the hill-fields, where geese, scarcely out of their adolescence, clamoured about her hands with their soothing, self-contented piping.  Even the fierce old gander, which was the terror of stray children and timid maid-servants, deigned to notice her with a tolerant eye.  Mavis sighed and went indoors.

Just before tea, she was standing at a window sorrowfully watching the sun’s early retirement.  The angle of the house prevented her from seeing her favourite cows, but she could hear the tearing sound their teeth made as they seized the grass.

She had seen nothing of her friends (even including Windebank) for the last few days.  They had realised that she was not to be stopped from going on what they considered to be her mad enterprise, and had given her up as a bad job.  No one seemed to care what became of her; it was as if she were deserted by the world.  A sullen anger raged within her; she would not acknowledge to herself that much of it was due to Windebank’s latent defection.  She longed to get away and have done with it; the suspense of waiting till the morrow was becoming intolerable.  As the servants were bringing in tea, Mavis could no longer bear the confinement of the house; she hurried past the two men to go out of the front door.

She walked at random, going anywhere so long as she obeyed the passion for movement which possessed her.  Some way from the house, she chanced upon Windebank, who was standing under a tree.

“Why are you here?” she asked, as she stood before him.

“I was making up my mind.”