Why should Kilner on the one hand, and Rita on the other, draw them apart? Why had they created nothing that could be shared outside themselves? Why should that which they had created destroy that which they had valued in their life together? Why--and he came firmly back to his real obsession--why should they have so isolated themselves that the natural consequence of their love, if love it were, should be an intrusion, a shock greater than they could bear? He listened again. Ann's breathing seemed to tell that she was asleep. He crept in to her. She was awake. After what seemed an age, she said in a dry, weary voice: "I keep trying to think what kind of a house you lived in." He described Hog Lane West. "No. The other one, I mean." "Oh, that?" He told her it was like a little house in some Gardens not far away. Then in the same dry, weary voice she said: "I have been trying to think what she felt when you left her." "For God's sake," cried he, "for God's sake keep that out of it." "I do try to, Renny, dear. But I can't help thinking about her sometimes when you're like that----" "Don't talk about it, Ann, don't talk about it. Go to sleep." "Kiss me, then. I couldn't go to sleep till you'd kissed me. Not to-night. It _is_ all right, isn't it?" "Oh, yes. It's all right, bless you." "I don't want to be a drag on you, Renny, dear. It _is_ a blessing we're not married, isn't it?" "That doesn't matter." "That's what I say. If it's right it can't stop, can it? If it's wrong, it must." He kissed her to stop her talking. She sighed contentedly, slid her arm into his and pressed her face against his shoulder. "Good night. We _have_ been happy." And in two minutes she was asleep. He too was glad of the happiness they had. He was a little infected with her fatalism. If there were to be calamities, there had been stores of frank pleasure and true delight to draw upon in defense against them.