of those tremendously strong masculine men that always want to be
top dog. Besides, you're young and pretty, if you don't mind my
saying so, and you remind him of what he's done out of . . .
Twenty-four, isn't he? Don't give way, Mrs. Clowes, you've a
long road before you; these paralysis cases are a frightful
worry, almost as bad for the friends as they are for the patient;
but if you play up it'll get better instead of worse. He'll get
used to it and so will you. One gets used to anything."

Even so: time goes on and storms subside. Bernard Clowes came
out of the hospital and he and his wife settled down on friendly
terms after all. "It's not what you bargained for when you
married me," said the cripple with his hard smile. "However, it's
no good crying over spilt milk, and you must console yourself
with the fact that there's still plenty of money going. But I
wish we'd had a little more time together first." He pierced her
with his black eyes, restless and fiery. "I dare say you would
have liked a boy. So should I. Nevermind, my girl, you shan't
miss much else."

Wanhope, the family property, was buried deep in Wiltshire, three
or four miles from a station. Laura liked the country: Wanhope
let it be, then: and Wanhope it was, with the additional
advantage that Yvonne was at Castle Wharton within a stroll.
Laura liked a wide house and airy rooms, a wide garden, plenty of
land, privacy from her neighbours: all this Wanhope gave her, no
slight relief to a girl who had been brought up between Brighton
and Monte Carlo. The place was too big to be run without an
agent? No drawback, the agent: on the contrary, Clowes looked
out for a fellow who would be useful to Laura, a gentleman, an