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“Twenty-four.”

“You don’t look as much as that. . . . You must have been very young when you married the Professor.”

“I was.”

Alison’s eyes grew dreamy, and silence fell. Thoughts and feelings surged through Tony’s mind which he despised and fought against, but could not drive away. He set his teeth, but his eyes never left the unconscious Alison’s face. What crinkly hair she had! . . .

Alison was miles away in a little garden crammed with roses, up in the hills where she and Winthrop had spent their honeymoon. How Winthrop had laughed at everything she said and did! How she had laughed at nothing at all! And some people were bored on their honeymoons. . . . She sighed, and smiled, and came back to Tony.

“What are you thinking about, Little Boy?”

“I’m not so very little.”

“Oh, darling, don’t be in a hurry to grow up! You skipped most of your childhood, so you’d better start it again now. What a good plan!”

She leant forward quickly and stroked his cheek with one finger—a favourite caress of hers. She was so sure of him now that she had quite forgotten to be cautious, and was horrified—almost angry—when at her touch his brows suddenly contracted and he shrank back, as if she had given him a blow.

“Tony, what a horrid little boy you are, after all!” she said slowly. Tony said nothing, but stared at her from beneath frowning brows.

“You don’t like me to do that? Why mayn’t I touch you?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

“Then why do you draw back as if I had hurt you? You hurt me, Tony—very much.”