His room opened out of hers; and the door between stood chronically ajar—a companionable habit begun in her first days of loneliness after his father’s death. He rarely missed the little ceremony of early tea, when he would establish himself at the foot of the bed and argue, or read aloud, or simply ‘rag’ her, as the spirit moved him. Then he would wander in and out, in the later stages of dressing, hindering and delighting her in about equal measure. Or they would carry on a violent argument through the open door, a pair of disembodied voices, till some climax would bring one or other gesticulating to the threshold. These morning and evening hours were the times of their most formidable encounters, their wildest nonsense, their utmost joy in each other’s society, exhibited in a manner peculiar to themselves. At night the ‘hair-brush interview’ had become a regular institution. It might be over in ten minutes or last till midnight, according to their mood. This was the time for graver matters, for the give and take of advice; and although there might be little outward show of sentiment, those hours of comradeship were among the most sacred treasures of the mother’s heart. To-night she brushed till her arm ached, listening for his footstep; and the moment she put the hated thing down, he came, bringing with him the whiff of cigarette smoke she loved. Standing behind her, he took her head between his hands, lightly passed his fingers through her hair and smiled at her in the glass. She was responsive as a cat when her hair was caressed; and he knew it. ‘Poor deserted little Mums!’ he said. ‘Had you given me up in despair?’ ‘Absolutely.’ ‘And how long would you have hung on past despair point?’ he asked with a twinkle. ‘Probably half an hour.... What have you done with your lady-love?’ ‘Ordered her to bed.’ ‘So early? All for my benefit? I scent an ulterior motive.’ He laughed and pulled her hair. ‘Your instinct’s infallible! It’s this marrying business. I know I promised to wait; but the whole face of the world has changed since then.’ He detected the faint compression of her lips. ‘Mums, you’re incorrigible. She’s a delicious thing.’ ‘Who says otherwise?’ ‘You do—internally! Not a mite of use throwing dust in my eyes. When you’re converted I shall know it, to the tick of a minute. Meantime’—he moved over to the window and stood there facing her—‘the question is, in a war like this, oughtn’t one to marry, if possible, before going out? She got on to war weddings this evening, and I was tongue-tied. That mustn’t happen again. What’s your notion? D’you still think—wait?’ A pause. She dreaded, as he did, the possibility of Wynchcombe Friars passing into the hands of Everard Forsyth and his son, whose views were not their views, except in matters political. Had the wife in question been Sheila, her answer would have been unhesitating. As it was, she parried his awkward question with another. ‘What do you think yourself, Mark?’