He had noticed that these attacks of “nerves,” as he called them, were apt to come at Treliss, and he had therefore rather avoided the place, but he found that it did, in some curious way, affect him also, and especially his work. The chapters that he wrote at Treliss had a rich, decorated colour that he could not capture in any other part of the world. Perhaps it was the medieval “feeling” of the place, the gold and brown of the roofs and rocks, the purple and blue of the sea and sky; but it went, as he knew, deeper than that. That spirit that influenced and disturbed his wife influenced also his work. They had been quarrelling for two days, and he saw with relief her smile as he came into the room. Their quarrels disturbed his work. “Come here, Fred. Don’t yawn; it’s rude. I’ve forgiven you, although you have been perfectly hateful these last few days. I think it’s ripping of me to have anything to do with you. But, as a matter of fact, you’re not a bad old thing and you look rather sweet in blue pyjamas.” She laid her hand on his arm for a moment and then took his hand. He looked at her rather apprehensively; it might mean simply that it was the end of the quarrel, but it might mean that she had one of her moods again. “I say, old girl,” he said, smiling down at her, “I’m most awfully sleepy. I don’t know what there is about this place, but I simply can’t keep awake. It’s partly the weather, I suppose. But anyhow, if you don’t awfully mind I think I’ll go off to sleep. I’m jolly glad you aren’t angry any more. I know I was rather silly, but the book’s a bit of a bother just now. . . .” He yawned again. “No, you _shan’t_ go to bed just yet, you sleepy old thing. I really don’t feel as though I’d seen anything of you at all this week. And I want to hear all about everything, all about the book. You haven’t told me a thing.” He moved his hand. “I say, my dear, you’ll be getting the most frightful cold sitting in a draught like that. You’d much better come to bed and we’ll talk to-morrow.” But she smiled at him. “No, Fred, I’m going to talk to you. I’m going to give you a sermon. You haven’t been a bit nice to me all this time here. I know I’ve been horrid, but then that’s woman’s privilege; and you know a woman’s only horrid because she wants a man to be nice, and I wanted you to be nice. This summer weather and everything makes it seem like those first days, the honeymoon at that sweet little place in Switzerland, you remember. That night . . .” She sighed and pressed his hand. He patted her hand. “Yes, dear, of course I remember. Do you suppose I shall ever forget it? We’ll go out to-morrow somewhere and have an afternoon together alone. Without these people hanging round. I ought to get the chapter finished to-morrow morning.” He moved back from the chair.