Lying there with her face turned to the small window of Mary's spare bedroom Sarah Greene found that she was perfectly happy. Now that no further struggle was possible and that a conclusion had been reached, she had fallen into a condition of luxurious restfulness which she decided would probably last till her death, broken of course by successive bouts of pain, and by small variations of mood. But fundamentally she was at ease and likely to remain so. A small wind blew along the street between the two rows of tall narrow houses, and fluttered the curtains at her window. She sighed; it was a London wind; even in the cool of the autumn night long before dawn, it was a London wind. She got up restlessly, put on a dressing-gown and sat down in a chair beside the low window. The house opposite seemed indecently near and indecently small. There could be no dignity of life in so cabined a space. Everywhere she saw a huddle of houses and chimneys. Wind blew along the street again and a casement curtain flapped out of the window opposite and filled her with distaste. It was so close to her, this grotesquely flapping piece of linen that belonged to people whose name she did not know, whose lives were alien to hers. A sudden nostalgia for Lynton broke like a storm in her heart; Lynton where her windows looked out on lawns and fields and beech trees, and even the sky seemed more remote. She stood up, her fingers pressed nervously on the window sill, and whispered, "I must go back to Lynton, I must go at once. It's impossible to spend a whole week in town. I'll go to-morrow." There was a gentle knock at the door. Resentful of any intrusion she said sternly, "Come in," and waited, a rigid small figure at the window. Roger came quietly round the door and shut it carefully. "May I come in for a few minutes?" he asked, "Mary's asleep, but I wakened up and heard you moving about, and thought I'd like to come and talk to you. I've had a feeling all evening that there was something wrong, or not exactly wrong; I don't quite know." He broke off uncertainly, then lifted a chair over to the window and said gently: "Let's sit and talk for a little; will you tell me if there's anything on your mind?" Mrs. Greene sat down again. Her resentment had died. Roger in pyjamas and dressing-gown looked young and tentative, and yet there was about him an air of steadfastness that suited the occasion. She looked at him and said lightly: "My dear, this is a very funny scene. You and I sitting here at the window in the middle of a cold November night." But Roger only answered: "Don't put me off, Aunt Sarah. I feel there is something wrong, and I do want you to tell me."