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about Clive. He could never have made such mistakes about me, even if he’d been my lover, and not married to me. We love the people who don’t make mistakes about us, don’t we?’

‘Yes,’ said Monica. What mistakes had she not made about Hester?

‘I think we’d better be going back now.’ Hester tossed away her cigarette. ‘You can walk, leaning on my arm, can’t you? Robin will be wondering, poor lamb, and I must get back to him;—and you must go to bed at once and have some hot milk with brandy in it and then get a good long sleep.—Pretty rotten for you, too, it’s been;—and don’t think I don’t see it!’ And Hester smiled at her as she held out her hand to assist her to rise. ‘Lean on me,’ she said.

They went slowly along the little grass track that, at the edge of the field, ran beside the copse. The sun had set and a soft evening breeze fanned their cheeks, but the golden light still enveloped them—the light in which everything could be said, and thinking of Hester’s smile just now, as she held out her hand, a smile so sweet and childlike that it brought again the sense of bewilderment and marvel, Monica asked:

‘Why did you think Clive might hate you,