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but she did not meet his eyes. She could not look at Clive yet. She walked to the window and stood there with her back to him. From the window one saw the hill behind the house. The turf was misted with spider’s webs and the sheep were all the colour of mushrooms. Above the hill was a little space of blue. ‘I’ve come to see you, Clive,’ she said.

There was silence for a moment behind her; then, in a careful voice, Clive said: ‘It’s very kind of you, Mother. More than kind. But Hester doesn’t leave me till the afternoon.’

‘I know. I won’t take Hester’s time. I only want to talk to you a little.—Hester has told you that we met yesterday?’

‘Yes. Of course.—She said you’d been wonderful. You and I’ll talk later, Mother. When she’s gone. There’s nothing to be done now; really.’ She turned at that and looked at him. He lay back on his pillows, a spot of hard colour on each cheek. ‘I’m all right, I promise you,’ he muttered as he met her eyes. ‘You needn’t treat me as if I were spun glass. I lie here because she’s left me nothing else to do. I can’t go down and wrestle with her at the door before the taxi-driver and the maids.’

‘No; of course you can’t,’ Monica murmured. ‘But you do know, don’t you, that she is as un-