He reached his study without encountering anything more human than a stray housemaid; and there the first thing he lighted on was his own tender and beautiful little Study of Contemplation. Standing just inside the door, he feasted his eyes on the soft, still face, the small head with its close-fitting cap of hair and the long-limbed grace of her figure. Then rage flamed in him. He felt like smashing the thing with a hammer and flinging away the pieces as he had flung away her ring. A mere pulse-beat of hesitation saved him and the artist prevailed over the man. He could not murder the work of his hands. Later on, he would give it to Maurice to wean him from the sin of impressionism. Meanwhile, he lifted it as tenderly as he would have touched the original, put it away in a corner cupboard and turned the key. He had scarcely done so when he heard his mother outside. ‘Open the door, dear,’ she said. ‘My hands are full.’ He opened it and relieved her of a tray set out with appetising food and wine. ‘Stunning of you, Mums,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry.’ To her delight he ate everything and drank three glasses of wine, while they discussed ways and means; the money they could realise, the men they could raise for England in this most critical hour of her destiny. Except for the absence of laughter and badinage in their talk, it was as if nothing abnormal had happened. But Lady Forsyth did not fail to note the disappearance of his terra-cotta treasure; and she was sinful enough to hope it had been destroyed. She stayed more than half an hour and left him with a fervent ‘God bless you!’ But this time she attempted no caress. She understood. * * * * * Next morning, after breakfast, she lingered in her turret room, wondering what he would do with himself, hoping he would come and let her know. He did come; and her heart ached at the tired look in his eyes. ‘I’m going to take the “Watersprite” up the loch, Mums,’ he told her. ‘And I’ll be away all day. Grant has stocked her well, so I shan’t starve. Don’t be an idiot if I’m late and go imagining I’ve drowned myself. At a time like this, a man’s life is not his own to chuck away. Besides, I’m not the sort. And—there happens to be you,’ he added with a travesty of a smile. ‘On the whole I’d sooner have the honour of being shot by the Germans—’ ‘Mark—don’t!’ She drew in a sharp breath. ‘Sorry, Mums. But it’s true. By the way, as I’m wasting some valuable time hadn’t we better stay over Sunday?’ ‘That _would_ make things easier,’ she admitted. ‘But I thought—you’d rather get away soon.’ ‘My dear Mother, don’t fash yourself with fancies. If it’ll ease things, we’ll jolly well stay. _I_ don’t care a damn.’