He lighted his cigarette. After all, Irene had not made a scene! She would come round⁠—that was the best of her; she was cold, but not sulky. And, puffing the cigarette smoke at a ladybird on the shining table, he plunged into a reverie about the house. It was no good worrying; he would go and make it up presently. She would be sitting out there in the dark, under the Japanese sunshade, knitting. A beautiful, warm night.⁠ ⁠…

In truth, June had come in that afternoon with shining eyes, and the words: “Soames is a brick! It’s splendid for Phil⁠—the very thing for him!”

Irene’s face remaining dark and puzzled, she went on:

“Your new house at Robin Hill, of course. What? Don’t you know?”

Irene did not know.