This was the sort of very definite question that Mr. Darlington preferred to get away from if possible, and he was just preparing to “hedge,” when, fortunately, they ran into the Dean, and the conversation deviated to a discussion concerning the effect the pursuit of scientific research was likely to have upon religious belief.

After supper that evening—­supper instead of dinner on Sundays was the general rule in Welsley—­Dion lit his pipe.  It had been a very happy day.  He wished the happiness to last till sleep came to Rosamund and to him; nevertheless he was resolved to take a risk, and to take it now before they went to bed, while they still had two quiet hours before them.  He looked at Rosamund and reluctance surged up in him, but he beat it back.  Something told him that he had been allowed to come back from South Africa in order that he might build firm foundations.  The perfect family life must be set upon rock.  He meant to get through to the rock if possible.  Rosamund and he were beginning again.  Now surely was the day of salvation if he played the man, the man instead of merely the lover.

“This has been one of the happiest days of my life,” he said.

He was standing by the fire.  Rosamund was sitting on a low chair doing some embroidery.  Gold thread gleamed against a rough cream-colored ground in her capable hands.

“I’m so thankful you like Welsley,” she said.

“Won’t you hate leaving Welsley?” he asked.

Rosamund went on quietly working for a moment.  Perhaps she bent a little lower over the embroidery.

“I’ve made a great many friends here,” she said at length, “and——­”

She paused.

“Yes—­do tell me, Rose.”

“There’s something here that I care for very much.”

“Is it the atmosphere of religion?  There’s a great deal here that suggests the religious life.”

“Yes; it’s what I care for.”

“I was almost afraid of meeting you here when I came back, Rose.  I remembered what you had once told me, that you had had a great longing to enter the religious life.  I was half afraid that, living here all alone with Robin, you might have become—­I don’t know exactly how to put it—­become cloistral.  I didn’t want to find you a sort of nun when I came back.”

He spoke with a gentle lightness.

“It might have been so, mightn’t it?”

She remembered her dreams in the walled-in garden almost guiltily.

“No,” she said steadily—­and as she spoke she felt as if she were firmly putting those dreams behind her forever.  “Motherhood changes a woman more than men can ever know.”

“I—­I know it’s all right.  Then you won’t hate me for taking you both back to Little Market Street in a few days?”

He saw the color deepen in her face.  For an instant she went on working.  Then she put the work down, sat back in the low chair, and looked up at him.