He was terrified. He had planned all this, grimly; now things were moving too fast for him. A long soft murmur of thunder jarred across the sky. Would the storm pass over without breaking? No, by God, it _must_ break, if they were ever to find peace. He must send up a kite, like old Ben Franklin (that first of modern advertising men) to bring down a sample of lightning. He must find out whether lightning was the kind of thing you can live with. He must tell her why he was terrified. He must tell her quickly. These were the last moments they would have together before ... already the colour of the light had changed. Here, on the side of the house away from the water, there was a darkening sparkle in the air. Her feet were ominously still. She must be thinking, and this always worried him. Suppose she too became aware of this secret insolubility of life? It was only her divine certainty about little things that kept him going. What business have biological units thinking about things? Let them obey their laws and not question. Shifting the weight of the spring to his shoulder he turned over and put his head out from under the foot of the bed. “Phyl,” he said, “why don’t you go and lie down a bit, have a rest before the folks get here.” She looked down at him. Even in the warm listless dream that seemed to have mastered her, she was touched by the foolish appeal in his red, dust-streaked face. Where the light caught the turn of his jaw shone a coppery stubble. “You need a shave,” she said; and then regretted her insistent tidying instinct. She was holding three large shabby dolls, unconsciously pressing them against her like an armful of real babies. One flopped forward over her arm, uttering an absurd bleating squawk. _Maaa-maa!_ “The children,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “The storm’s coming. Hurry up with those beds; get the children back from the beach.” “They’re all right,” he said sulkily. “Mr. Martin’ll take care of ’em.” His large flushed face, mouth open, gazed up from the floor. He looked pitiably silly, like a frightened dog. He was thinking, all I want to tell her is that I love her; no matter what happens I love her. But how can I say it? If she weren’t my wife I suppose it would be so much easier. Why do we always show our worst side to the people we love? She was thinking: The absurd idiot, writhing about under that bed like a roach, telling me to go and lie down when there are a hundred things to be done, beds to be made, towels and linen got out, silver counted, instructions to Lizzie.... Certainly she had tried to warn him.... “Damn Mr. Martin!” she cried. “Don’t trust him. You fool, you fool. Can’t you see he’s crazy? We’re all crazy. Stop sprawling there like a mud turtle, _do_ something.” “Listen, Phyl,” he said heavily. “I want to tell you something. Now, listen, you’ve got to help me.”