you change in a moment."

"Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen,
taking fire. "I know of things they can't know of, and so do you. We
know that there's poetry. We know that there's death. They can only take
them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh,
they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night
we are at home."

"It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may
be a chance in a thousand."

"Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won't be a
very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little
happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?"

"I needn't say how much it would mean to me."

"Then let us."

"It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get
leave?"

"Oh, we don't want leave."

But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and
poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the
technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be
technical, too. A night's lodging--and they demanded no more--need not
involve the discussion of general principles.

"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen.

"We shan't consult him."

"Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave."

It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen's
character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without
leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.

"Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is
like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing."

"Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of
tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house.

She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy,
however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she
drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the
straw.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the
man's deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with
the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be
rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who
had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and
ordered them to wheel baby's perambulator away, as they desired to be
alone.

"But the