“To marry an Oakleigh and find him a man would be the greatest romance life could offer,” she laughed. “Then I’m afraid you must look elsewhere for your romance,” I sighed. “You can only give out what’s in you. I’m sorry our marriage has been a failure. I’ve honestly done my best.” . . . Turning at the door, Barbara came slowly back and kissed me again: “I know you have. And I’ll do mine. I told you the day poor old Bertrand died that I’d be your wife, I’d bear you children if I could . . .” In spite of her kisses, in spite of the strange new light in her eyes, I had to be told in words that our two years’ tragedy was over: “My dear one, you said we should be dishonoured if we put anything in the place of love . . .” I waited to hear that terrible verdict reversed. Barbara looked at me in amazement and then gave a single tearless sob. She regained her composure immediately and walked again to the door. “You have a good memory, George,” she threw back. “Have you saved that up for two years? Do you want me to say that I’ve suddenly found you irresistible? The Oakleighs are very true to their own type.” 5 As the door closed, I saw my last chance being shut from me. The house was in darkness when I went into the hall; there was no answer when I called to Barbara, though I could see a light in her room. I came downstairs again to brood of men, women and Oakleighs. I tried next day to explain, but Barbara refused with cold courtesy to understand what I was trying to explain. I had been patient, too patient; in her turn she was trying to meet me. She was ready to give anything I asked, if she had it to give; and the false sweetness of her complaisance was a deadlier bar than any refusal. “I feel I was ungracious,” I said. “Ungracious? You?,” she mocked. “I must go now, or I shall be late for Mr. Wace.” “Shall I see you after the opening of parliament?” “But of course! For another eternity! Good-bye.” The rest of that morning I spent in Fetter Lane, reviewing the achievements of the peace-administration. The only visible traces of the war, when I walked down to Westminster, were the cenotaph in Whitehall and the long army of unemployed that was trying to get past it to the precincts of parliament. While I waited for the crowd to disperse, I heard a familiar voice asking my neighbour what was happening. “Raney! Here, you’d better let me see you home,” I said. “There’s an appalling mob everywhere.” “Thanks, I’ve had to acquire a sixth sense,” he answered. “What are you doing here?” “Looking on and thinking of that week-end in August when the Anti-Intervention people pursued me down to Loring Castle. I’ve been wondering if we shouldn’t have done better to keep out of the war at all costs.” “We should have been dishonoured if we’d let Belgium down,” he answered.