No, it was true. Every morning when he came back from chambers it was to find the babies with Isabel in the back drawing-room. They were having rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they were playing shops with Isabel’s desk for a counter, or Pad was sitting on the hearthrug rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire shovel, while Johnny shot at pirates with the tongs. Every evening they each had a pick-a-back up the narrow stairs to their fat old Nanny. Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A little white house with blue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met their friends at the door with “Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for London, don’t you think?” But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extraordinary thing was that he hadn’t the slightest idea that Isabel wasn’t as happy as he. God, what blindness! He hadn’t the remotest notion in those days that she really hated that inconvenient little house, that she thought the fat Nanny was ruining the babies, that she was desperately lonely, pining for new people and new music and pictures and so on. If they hadn’t gone to that studio party at Moira Morrison’s—if Moira Morrison hadn’t said as they were leaving, “I’m going to rescue your wife, selfish man. She’s like an exquisite little Titania”—if Isabel hadn’t gone with Moira to Paris—if—if.... The train stopped at another station. Bettingford. Good heavens! They’d be there in ten minutes. William stuffed that papers back into his pockets; the young man opposite had long since disappeared. Now the other two got out. The late afternoon sun shone on women in cotton frocks and little sunburnt, barefoot children. It blazed on a silky yellow flower with coarse leaves which sprawled over a bank of rock. The air ruffling through the window smelled of the sea. Had Isabel the same crowd with her this week-end, wondered William? And he remembered the holidays they used to have, the four of them, with a little farm girl, Rose, to look after the babies. Isabel wore a jersey and her hair in a plait; she looked about fourteen. Lord! how his nose used to peel! And the amount they ate, and the amount they slept in that immense feather bed with their feet locked together.... William couldn’t help a grim smile as he thought of Isabel’s horror if she knew the full extent of his sentimentality. “Hillo, William!” She was at the station after all, standing just as he had imagined, apart from the others, and—William’s heart leapt—she was alone. “Hallo, Isabel!” William stared. He thought she looked so beautiful that he had to say something, “You look very cool.” “Do I?” said Isabel. “I don’t feel very cool. Come along, your horrid old train is late. The taxi’s outside.” She put her hand lightly on his arm as they passed the ticket collector. “We’ve all come to meet you,” she said. “But we’ve left Bobby Kane at the sweet shop, to be called for.” “Oh!” said William. It was all he could say for the moment.