“Oh, yes, he’s upstairs changing. Yes, he’s awfully well. Take off your wet things; I’ll send them to be dried.” “And how are you both, in spirits? He doesn’t fret?” “No—no, not at all. No, on the contrary, really. We’ve been wonderfully happy, incredibly. It’s more than I can understand—so wonderful: the nearness, and the peace—” “Ah! Well, that’s awfully good news—” They moved away. Pervin heard no more. But a childish sense of desolation had come over him, as he heard their brisk voices. He seemed shut out—like a child that is left out. He was aimless and excluded, he did not know what to do with himself. The helpless desolation came over him. He fumbled nervously as he dressed himself, in a state almost of childishness. He disliked the Scotch accent in Bertie’s speech, and the slight response it found on Isabel’s tongue. He disliked the slight purr of complacency in the Scottish speech. He disliked intensely the glib way in which Isabel spoke of their happiness and nearness. It made him recoil. He was fretful and beside himself like a child, he had almost a childish nostalgia to be included in the life circle. And at the same time he was a man, dark and powerful and infuriated by his own weakness. By some fatal flaw, he could not be by himself, he had to depend on the support of another. And this very dependence enraged him. He hated Bertie Reid, and at the same time he knew the hatred was nonsense, he knew it was the outcome of his own weakness. He went downstairs. Isabel was alone in the dining-room. She watched him enter, head erect, his feet tentative. He looked so strong-blooded and healthy, and, at the same time, cancelled. Cancelled—that was the word that flew across her mind. Perhaps it was his scars suggested it. “You heard Bertie come, Maurice?” she said. “Yes—isn’t he here?” “He’s in his room. He looks very thin and worn.” “I suppose he works himself to death.” A woman came in with a tray—and after a few minutes Bertie came down. He was a little dark man, with a very big forehead, thin, wispy hair, and sad, large eyes. His expression was inordinately sad—almost funny. He had odd, short legs. Isabel watched him hesitate under the door, and glance nervously at her husband. Pervin heard him and turned. “Here you are, now,” said Isabel. “Come, let us eat.” Bertie went across to Maurice. “How are you, Pervin,” he said, as he advanced. The blind man stuck his hand out into space, and Bertie took it. “Very fit. Glad you’ve come,” said Maurice. Isabel glanced at them, and glanced away, as if she could not bear to see them. “Come,” she said. “Come to table. Aren’t you both awfully hungry? I am, tremendously.” “I’m afraid you waited for me,” said Bertie, as they sat down. Maurice had a curious monolithic way of sitting in a chair, erect and distant. Isabel’s heart always beat when she caught sight of him thus.