“The wind’s still blowing,” he said aloud. “Wind without rain,” he said, “is a different thing altogether from wind with rain. Don’t you think so, Chris?”

“Very different,” murmured the girl, almost inaudibly.

“If I’d made love to her, in there, on her bed,” he thought, “would it have meant everything ? And if it had ⁠ ⁠… would we have been miserable like this, or happy?” He turned his chair round and reached over to the sofa, picking up the volume of Sir Thomas Browne.

“Let me read to you a little, Chris dear,” he said gently.

“As you like, Wolf,” came the faint response, as she propped her chin on the palms of her two hands and stared into the fire.