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gether. They are modern, artistic people, you know, and don’t believe in marriage. I hope you don’t mind their coming. Hester was rather upset when she saw them both, knowing we were to have tea with you.’

‘Why, my dear—do you, too, think of me as the prim Victorian dame? Of course I’ll give them tea. Why should I mind? I don’t mind irregularities in the least. All I mind is people having theories to justify their irregularity.—I don’t mind what people do so long as they don’t talk about it!’ And Monica’s laugh, as she found the aphorism, was dry. She was sure that Hester had not been in the least upset and she did mind irregularity.

‘They don’t talk about it,’ said Clive. He never retorted; he only withdrew. She felt now that he withdrew. She had failed. He saw that she was miserable. When one was miserable one could not hide.

In silence they crossed the Green. Looking out with hot eyes from under the brim of her summer hat, Monica felt that she hated the Green; she had never known how much till then. She hated her garden, too, all opened and exposed to view except at the back where the hedge had grown high enough to hide it. She hated the beam and plaster and the