They were curious letters, written in a jealous spirit, but intended to create an impression of contentment. They were in the nature of veiled retorts which said, “So you see, my husband's as good as yours.” Without knowing it, they betrayed envy. If Nan had given news concerning the doings of herself, Billy or her children, Jehane would reply with parallel details concerning her family. Just as in conversation she spoke of her husband as Mr. Waffles, as though the very name were a title inspiring awe, so in correspondence she quoted his opinions, as a loving wife would the sayings of a man she worshiped. Jehane wrote less and less in the mood of spontaneous friendship; if she had nothing better to say, one wondered that she took the trouble to write at all. Probably she did it out of habit and, perhaps, in order to hoodwink herself. And she was evasive. Questions as to how Ocky's enterprise was progressing were left unanswered--in place of answers were loose optimistic statements. A letter from Sandport usually brought with it an atmosphere of annoyance. Nan exercised her tact in selecting portions to be read aloud. It was in keeping with Ocky's character that, even when Barrington had written himself, Jehane did the replying, saying that her husband was very busy at present with new developments. One morning Nan passed a letter down the table without comment. Barrington's brows drew together in a frown; halfway through reading it he flung it from him. “Another! Well, I must say they might have waited until they knew whether they could afford----” Nan interrupted him quietly. “Billy, not before----” She glanced at the children. When they were supposed to have forgotten what their father had said, Kay and Peter were informed--Aunt Je-hane had another little girl. That evening the king and queen of the castle talked together after the knight and the princess had been put to bed. “They've no right to do a thing like that--bringing another child into the world. Jehane doesn't love him. It's my belief she never has. The thing's sordid. What chance will the little beggar have? It puts the whole business of marriage on a level with the animals. Ugh!” They were sitting beneath the mulberry in the cool dusk. From far away, like waves lapping against the walls of a precipice in a cranny of which they had found shelter, the weary complaint of London reached them. Within his own house, with his wife and children, Barrington felt lifted high above all that. He hated this intrusion of strife and ugliness. Nan's arm stole round his neck; she had never lost the shyness with which she had given him her first caress. “Billy, old boy, you mustn't be angry with them--only sorry. Don't you know we're exceptional.” “Not so exceptional as all----” “Yes--as all that. How many wives and husbands are lovers after they've been married ten years?” “Never tried to count.” “How many then would choose one another again if they could begin afresh?”