She looked at him in such quaint misery, her face all wrinkled and slippery with tears, he was almost angry again. “Damn it, I mean _really_ married. The first time doesn’t count, it’s only a Promotion Scheme, your genial old prayer book admits it. But the Bible says it’s better to marry than to burn, doesn’t it?” “Let’s do both.” (Why, he thought, she’s got almost as much sense as Joyce.) “That’s the way to talk,” he said. “Because I’d much rather marry a woman with a sense of humour. All right, we’ll pretend we’ve been living in sin, and now I’m going to make an honest woman of you. Wilt thou, Phyllis, have this man to thy wedded husband----” “We _have_ been living in sin. It’s sin to be unhappy and hateful.” “Of course it is. And if either of you know any impediment---- Where’s that prayer book of yours? I love that marriage--service stuff so much, it’d be worth while to get spliced every now and then just to hear it. It’s so gorgeously earthy. Remember that bit where as soon as he’s tied ’em up the parson has misgivings, and sings out in alarm ‘O Lord, save thy servant and thy handmaid!’” “No, don’t read me the prayer book now, I can’t stand it. I want to get my bath.” “Run along then.” He threw her blue robe around her shoulders. “We’ve got to go through with the Picnic, for the children’s sake. We’ll make it the happiest day in the world.” “You don’t think it’s too late?” He watched her down the passage, and then stood by the window seat looking out. The morning was very moist, there was fog over the bay, the hall had a faint musty odour like damp wallpaper. Certainly it was going to rain. Never mind, it would be one of those steady drumming rains that make a house so cosy. He was surprised to see that Joyce was in the garden already, she had set up her easel near the tea table and was painting. No, he thought, I shan’t let her go: we _can_ all be happy together. If Phyl knew how much she owes to Joyce she’d fall at her feet. How wise women would be if they knew that a man who has only loved one has never loved any. But better not mention it. Who wants them to be wise, poor ... half-tamed leopards! “There’s someone in the bathroom,” Phyllis said, coming back. “Martin, probably.” “No, it’s Ruth. I can smell her all down the passage. That mignonette she uses. Funny how sharp one’s nose is in damp weather.” “If we ever come here again we’ll have the house repapered.” She knelt on the seat beside him. “Don’t let’s come again.” Her look followed his into the quiet garden. Both were silent. George guessed well enough why Joyce was there. She was doing a sketch for him, something to leave him. In that little figure at the easel was all the honour and disaster of all the world.