“There’s one other thing I’d like to say,” North went on, speaking rather hurriedly, “and that is, see that you and Vi don’t get like myself and her mother. Vi is like her in some ways, and though no doubt I’ve been in fault too, and we were always wholly unsuited, yet we began under better conditions than you have. And now we’ve got on each other’s nerves so much that everything she says or does irritates me, and vice versa. We _can’t_ get right now if we would. She thinks she’s fond of me still, because it’s the correct thing to be fond of your husband, but it’s far nearer hatred than love. And I—have no delusions. And for God’s sake, my boy, keep clear of following in our footsteps.” “We come of a different generation, sir,” said Riversley simply. “If we can’t hit it off, we shall part. Only if there is trouble ahead for her, and I am afraid there is, I’m right there.” North looked at him with kindly eyes, but he sighed. He knew only too well how the long years of misunderstanding, and irritability, and want of give and take, can wear out what at first seemed such a wonderful and indestructible thing. “Roger! Roger!” shrilled his wife’s voice from the lawn. “Everyone is going. Aren’t you coming to say good-bye?” She flashed on their vision as she called, her face flushed with indignation under her beflowered hat, her hands full of small boxes, tissue paper and cotton wool. “I really do think you might help a little! It looks so odd, and all my friends think you peculiar enough already.” Brought back with a shock to the deadly importance of the ordinary routine, North became flippant. “You don’t mean to say they tell you so?” he asked. “It’s easy enough to guess what they must think, without any telling,” retorted his wife. “At any rate, if you can’t behave with common civility yourself, you might let Fred come and help me. Fred, I have arranged for cold supper at 8.30. Will you come at once and look after the friends you brought down, while Violet and I change. And don’t, I beg you, for Violet’s sake, get into the same ways as her father.” Riversley followed her meekly across the lawn. “I’m really awfully sorry,” he apologized. “Is there anything else I can do?” Then he stopped. His mother-in-law was immersed in a group of her guests saying good-bye, and his eyes had found the figure they always sought. Outside the front door, Lady Condor, her scarves, gloves, and glasses, were all being packed carefully into her bath-chair, and a little way down the drive was his wife. In front of her, just out of arm’s length, were the little pack of West Highlanders, barking furiously. She stooped down, coaxing them to come and be petted.