“I was going to write to you, my dear,” she said eagerly, “in case I shouldn’t see you before Saturday. We’re going to Weymouth, Wolf!”

He looked at her closely. The heavy, sulky face was gleaming. He commented, with shame in his secret heart, upon his lack of spontaneous sympathy. What did it mean, this cold, tightening sensation within him? Was it that the figure of Darnley, urbane, melancholy, unattached, had become a sanctuary of refuge for him? He found himself responding to the clutch of Olwen’s feverish fingers with a significant and treacherous pressure.

“I’m glad you’re going to Weymouth. What a splendid idea!” he replied, as enthusiastically as he could. “Weymouth has always been⁠—”

At that moment they reached the wide-open door of the church.