At length Maurice rose restlessly, a big, obtrusive figure. He felt tight and hampered. He wanted to go away. “Do you mind,” he said, “if I go and speak to Wernham?” “No—go along, dear,” said Isabel. And he went out. A silence came over the two friends. At length Bertie said: “Nevertheless, it is a great deprivation, Cissie.” “It is, Bertie. I know it is.” “Something lacking all the time,” said Bertie. “Yes, I know. And yet—and yet—Maurice is right. There is something else, something _there_, which you never knew was there, and which you can’t express.” “What is there?” asked Bertie. “I don’t know—it’s awfully hard to define it—but something strong and immediate. There’s something strange in Maurice’s presence—indefinable—but I couldn’t do without it. I agree that it seems to put one’s mind to sleep. But when we’re alone I miss nothing; it seems awfully rich, almost splendid, you know.” “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” said Bertie. They talked desultorily. The wind blew loudly outside, rain chattered on the window-panes, making a sharp, drum-sound, because of the closed, mellow-golden shutters inside. The logs burned slowly, with hot, almost invisible small flames. Bertie seemed uneasy, there were dark circles round his eyes. Isabel, rich with her approaching maternity, leaned looking into the fire. Her hair curled in odd, loose strands, very pleasing to the man. But she had a curious feeling of old woe in her heart, old, timeless night-woe. “I suppose we’re all deficient somewhere,” said Bertie. “I suppose so,” said Isabel wearily. “Damned, sooner or later.” “I don’t know,” she said, rousing herself. “I feel quite all right, you know. The child coming seems to make me indifferent to everything, just placid. I can’t feel that there’s anything to trouble about, you know.” “A good thing, I should say,” he replied slowly. “Well, there it is. I suppose it’s just Nature. If only I felt I needn’t trouble about Maurice, I should be perfectly content—” “But you feel you must trouble about him?” “Well—I don’t know—” She even resented this much effort. The evening passed slowly. Isabel looked at the clock. “I say,” she said. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. Where can Maurice be? I’m sure they’re all in bed at the back. Excuse me a moment.” She went out, returning almost immediately. “It’s all shut up and in darkness,” she said. “I wonder where he is. He must have gone out to the farm—” Bertie looked at her. “I suppose he’ll come in,” he said. “I suppose so,” she said. “But it’s unusual for him to be out now.” “Would you like me to go out and see?” “Well—if you wouldn’t mind. I’d go, but—” She did not want to make the physical effort.