“No, of course we must go back.  And I was very happy in Little Market Street.”

And then quickly, before he could say anything, she began to recall the pleasant details of their life in Westminster, dwelling upon every household joy, and everything that though “Londony” had been delightful.  Having conquered, with an effort which had cost her more than even Dion knew, a terrible reluctance she gave herself to her own generous impulse with enthusiasm.  Rosamund could not do things by halves.  She might obstinately refrain from treading a path, but if once she had set her feet on it she hurried eagerly along it.  Something to-night had made her decide on treading the path of unselfishness, of generosity.  When Dion lit his pipe she had not known she was going to tread it.  It seemed to her almost as if she had found herself upon the path without knowing how she had got there.  Now without hesitation she went forward.

“It was delightful in Westminster,” she concluded, “and it will be delightful there again.”

“And all your friends here?  And Mr. Thrush?”

“I don’t know what Mr. Thrush will do,” she said, with a change to deep gravity.

The two lines showed in her pure forehead.

“I’m so afraid that without me he will fall back.  But perhaps I can run down now and then just for the day to keep him up to his promise, poor dear old man.”

“And your friends?”

“Oh, well—­of course I shall miss them.  But I suppose there is always something to miss.  There must be a crumpled rose leaf.  I am far more fortunate than almost any woman I know.”

Dion put down his pipe.

“I simply can’t do it,” he said.

“What?”

“Take you away from here.  It seems your right place.  You love it; Robin loves it.  What’s to be done?  Shall I run up and down?”

“You can’t.  It’s too far.”

“I have to read the papers somewhere.  Why not in the train?”

“Three hours or more!  It’s impossible.  If only Welsley were nearer London!  But, then, it wouldn’t be Welsley.”

“Now I know you’ll go I can’t take you away.”

“Did you—­what did you think I should do?”

“How could I tell?”

He sat down and took her hands.

“Rose, you’ve made this the happiest day of my life.”

“Do you mean because——?”

She stopped.  Her face became very grave, almost severe.  She looked at him, but he felt that she was really looking inward upon herself.  When at last he let go her hands she said: 

“Dion, you are very different from what you were when you went to the war.  If I seem different, too, it’s because of that, I think.”

“War changes women, perhaps, as well as men,” he said tenderly.

They sat by the fire in the quiet old room and talked of the future and of all the stages of Robin:  as schoolboy, as youth, as budding undergraduate, as man.