The logs burned slowly, with hot, almost
invisible small flames. Bertie seemed uneasy, there were dark circles
round his eyes. Isabel, rich with her approaching maternity, leaned
looking into the fire. Her hair curled in odd, loose strands, very
pleasing to the man. But she had a curious feeling of old woe in her
heart, old, timeless night-woe.
'I suppose we're all deficient somewhere,' said Bertie.
'I suppose so,' said Isabel wearily.
'Damned, sooner or later.'
'I don't know,' she said, rousing herself. 'I feel quite all right, you
know. The child coming seems to make me indifferent to everything, just
placid. I can't feel that there's anything to trouble about, you know.'
'A good thing, I should say,' he replied slowly.
'Well, there it is. I suppose it's just Nature. If only I felt I needn't
trouble about Maurice, I should be perfectly content--'
'But you feel you must trouble about him?'
'Well--I don't know--' She even resented this much effort.
The evening passed slowly. Isabel looked at the clock. 'I say,' she said.
'It's nearly ten o'clock. Where can Maurice be? I'm sure they're all in
bed at the back. Excuse me a moment.'
She went out, returning almost immediately.
'It's all shut up and in darkness,' she said. 'I wonder where he is. He
must have gone out to the farm--'
Bertie looked at her.
'I suppose he'll come in,' he said.
'I suppose so,' she said.
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