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heard the dry, rending sobs. ‘Oh—Clive—Clive!’—she murmured. He was in her arms. They had sunken on the window-seat and his face was pressed against her breast;—‘Oh, Clive—what have we been saying to each other—you and I?—Forgive me!’

‘No.—It’s I.—It’s I who have been wrong,’ he uttered with difficulty.

‘No! No!—I am your mother. It is for me to understand.’

‘It’s I’ Clive repeated. ‘If I were stronger I could make you see.’

‘But I do see.—I see that you must be loyal.—

I see that you must love your wife.—I should not have spoken as I did. I have been very wrong.—Wrong and disingenuous.—Yes, Clive, disingenuous. It was not as bad as I said.—Not as bad as I felt it to be.

‘Bless you, Mummy.—Bless you for saying it.—She hurt you. She startled you.—I understand what happened. It was because she was hurt and startled.—She is fierce, like you, when she is hurt.—It was only because of him.—She didn’t mean to insult you.—Oh, please see that, Mummy.’

‘Of course I see it. I saw it when I said it. It was almost a lie when I said it. Words are so dreadful,