’You ridiculous child,’ said Ross, giving me a little shake, ’oh, you poor, funny little scrap, what an awful fright you gave me. Poor Michael, what a wife he’s got who sobs and cries because he’s coming home on leave, I’m really sorry for that chap.’ And then he picked me up, a crumpled heap, from off the floor, and dumped me on my bed. ’You’ll stay there till you’ve had your dinner, anyhow. Now, don’t argue,’ he exclaimed, flinging himself into the nearest chair, ’I must have a cigarette. How poor old Solomon got on with all his lot beats me, managing two women in one short afternoon’s enough. It is, as Charles would say, "so dashed exhausting."’ *THREE WEEKS LATER* *CHAPTER XXIV* But of course I’m not. Why on earth should I be crying after three such perfect weeks. It’s only just the smell of Harris tweed again. I caught the whiff of it as I came through the door into the hall alone, after the last sound of Michael’s car had died away. I wish I had been allowed to go to London with him, it would have been another hour or so with my beloved. No, I don’t really wish it if he didn’t. I must be ill, I think, to be so meek. After he went there was a ridiculous telegram from Ross saying that he was returning in time for dinner if it was convenient. Wasn’t it absurd of him to take himself off like that the morning Michael came, and only come to dine and sleep twice in three whole weeks. He has had another Board, and the verdict is ’Three to four weeks and massage,’ and Sam’s M.O. said, ’Three to five weeks and massage.’ So there you are! The usual arrangement! But, oh, to think in a very few more weeks I shall have to say ’Good-bye’ again to both of them. I can’t accept God’s will about it. My mind’s divorced from His, my wishes in opposition. The constant struggle to feel differently fags me out, but perhaps I shall ’feel better in the morning,’ as Mrs Williams used to say. When Ross came in to say ’Good-night,’ he said,— ’By the way, Meg, how’s the novel? Got a plot yet?’