The spark of irritation was purely refreshing: and he never apologised to her for ‘language’ accidental or otherwise. So complete was the comrade spirit between them that he prided himself on his habit of speaking to her straightly as man to man. More than once, in University days, he had filled some prospective visitor with envy by the casual remark: ‘Don’t be alarmed if you hear me scrapping with my Mother. She’s the right sort. I can talk to her just exactly as I talk to you.’ Now, in answer to his outburst, she said quietly: ‘Very well, Monday. I’ll tell the others.’ ‘That’s all right. And don’t you be a fool about me!’ So he left her and she did her best to obey him; but the faint consolation that his trouble brought him nearer to herself was obliterated by her acute consciousness of his hidden pain and resentment against the cause of it. That grey, weary Thursday seemed as if it would never pass. Clouds had rolled up out of the West. Scudding showers lashed the loch; and through them she could picture Mark driving the little steam-yacht he loved. Long after sunset he came back wet to the skin; but looking, on the whole, more like himself. He had fought and conquered something out there in the rain and wind. But he spent what remained of the evening in his studio as before. On Friday evening, when they were gathered in the square hall waiting to start, he strode casually down stairs and nodded his greetings as if he had merely been away for a couple of nights. He had prepared a speech, he said, that ought to make the men of Ardmuir sit up to some purpose: and Keith, watching the little incident from the study threshold, murmured: ‘Well done, old boy!’ A second car had been ordered to accommodate the party; and while they made ready, Mark was left momentarily alone with Sheila in the hall. Then she took courage and looked up at him. ‘Mark—I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I may say that much, mayn’t I?’ For a second he held her gaze. Then: ‘You may say anything you please,’ he answered, ‘when you look like that! Truth is,’ he paused, ‘she’s never been taught to see things the right way. It was just—that one couldn’t make her understand.’ ‘Poor Bel! She must be very unhappy.’ ‘Bel—unhappy!’ His astonishment was manifest. But then—Sheila had not seen the look in her eyes. ‘I doubt it,’ he added with a touch of bitterness. ‘_I_ don’t,’ the soft voice persisted. ‘She’s bound to be—if she cares.’ ‘But if she cared, how _could_ she—?’ The note of pain in his voice gave her still more courage. ‘You said—she didn’t understand, and that poisons everything.’ Touched to the heart he said impulsively ‘Sheila, what a wise little Mouse you are!’ It was his old nickname for her and she drew in a quick breath. ‘Not so very! But I do know—about caring.’ ‘The first best knowledge surely,’ he said: then Keith appeared and bade them hurry up.