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compose you as much as it did yesterday, and the other night. I understood the other night, too, and your behaviour to me then, after what Clive said.’

Hester carried a small, stumpy sunshade—a red sunshade that matched her hat and jumper (all was very nicely thought out)—and now her hands grasped it tightly and fiercely, as fiercely as though she restrained herself from hurling it at her mother-in-law’s head.—‘Clive never said it! Clive could not have said such a thing! I never spoke of him to Clive!’ she exclaimed, and her lip lifted from her teeth as she clenched them in what was almost a snarl of fury. The blaze of the conflagration was indeed revealing. A wide landscape, till then unseen, leaped into view. Clive had not dared to tell his wife of his surmise. His mother remembered now how deep had been his discomposure. Clive, too, had his intuitions. And through it all—all that she was seeing—Monica was aware that Hester, at all events, was telling no lies and that, illumined by the lurid moment, she was looking almost beautiful.

She could not pause for Hester’s beauty. She held her thought steady, like a sword in her hand, and its edge was in her voice as she said: ‘That’s very strange: That shows Clive’s insight. I did not