Winifred remembered ridiculously the flowers in her window-boxes after a blazing summer day; the way they lay, or rather stood⁠—parched, yet rested by the sun’s retreat. It was as if a little dew had come already on her burnt-up husband.

He said apathetically: “I suppose you’ve been to Park Lane. How’s the old man?”

Winifred could not help the bitter answer: “Not dead.”

He winced, actually he winced.

“Understand, Monty,” she said, “I will not have him worried. If you aren’t going to behave yourself, you may go back, you may go anywhere. Have you had dinner?”

“No.”

“Would you like some?”

He shrugged his shoulders.