Wolf’s memory rushed away to that March evening by the banks of the river⁠ ⁠… to the shed in the middle of the wet grass⁠ ⁠… to the yellow bracken. It struck his mind as ominous, if not tragic, that at this juncture she should instinctively revert to Lobbie and the Lunt. But he made no attempt to dissuade her. “She thinks it’s pride in me that I don’t,” he said to himself. “It isn’t that! It’s respect for her. It’s respect for her life. It’s respect for her identity.”

“Where will you get your dinner?” she said at last, standing between the crocuses and the pink hyacinths, while Wolf still held their front-door open. His heart leaped up at this word. Was it an overture, a motion towards him?

“Oh, I expect I’ll find enough in the cupboard, sweetheart,” he said lightly; but into these words also he threw a caressing supplication. “If not, I’ll see if my mother’s in⁠ ⁠… or Christie,” he added.