“When we were engaged,” he said, “I heard two women talking—talking of you and me. I cleared out as soon as I’d tumbled, but I’d heard a thing first that stuck. They said there was only one man on earth who could take you away from me . . . and they mentioned . . . his name.” Jean gave a tremulous laugh. “Good lord,” she said. “Why, I wouldn’t be seen dead with him.” “I didn’t know that, Jean. It—it looked the other way. And—and I sort of came unbuttoned at the thought of losing you. I let out, if you remember, about ‘forbidden fruit.’” “Yes,” said Jean slowly. “I remember. I never got it, of course. I couldn’t see anything except the blinding fact that you didn’t care. And . . . all the time . . . you did.” Oliver got to his knees and put her hand to his lips. “I worship you, Jean,” he said. “I always have. I worship your glorious body and I worship your darling ways. I love your laughter and your precious, blessed voice. I love your footfalls and the breath of your parted lips. But that was always . . . Now I’ve got something more, something to kneel to. . . . You’re made of the stuff that queens are made of, Jean. I let you down—most terribly. I know I never meant to, but that’s no defence. You left the finance to me, and I broke up your life. . . . Well, women don’t like their lives being broken up, even by accident. But never once, by word or deed or look, have you so much as hinted that I might have taken more care. . . . More. You’ve never complained, you’ve never murmured once—and it’s been far harder for you. Instead, you’ve stood beside me, quiet, steadfast. If you’ve wept, I’ve never seen it. If you’d liked to make it _your_ trouble, you’d every right. But you wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t even let it be _our_ trouble. _It hasn’t been ‘trouble’ at all._ You’ve charmed it into just an incident . . . an incident in _our_ life. . . .” Jean stood up and took his face in her hands. “It’s the ale, my darling,” she said. “The ale I spoke of. So long as we drink it together. . . .” Oliver rose to his feet and took her in his arms. “‘And he was her man,’” whispered Jean. “‘And she was his woman.’” They looked up to see the postman ten paces away. “There now,” he said. “I thought this was ’Allatrow ’All. An’ lo! and be’old, if it ain’t the Garden of Eden.” “Don’t say you’re the serpent,” said Oliver, laughing. “Oh, shame!” said the postman, producing a letter. “Never min’. ’Ere’s a napple.” They laughed with him, gave him their letters in exchange and watched him tramp down the avenue under the rook-ridden elms. “Hullo, it’s for me,” said Oliver. “Oh, I know. It’s from the _Rhin_.” “The _Rhin_?” said Jean, peering. “How have they got our address?” “’Member those wires we never paid for? And I was always going to send the porter a cheque? Well, when we got here I remembered, and, as we weren’t so tied up, I sent him five bob.” He ripped the envelope open, to find another inside.