t came to this. Wherever man met
woman, there also must be mean slinking and shame-faced meeting, taxis
and back lanes and a sordid round of evasion. Earlier in the term the
sheer joy of release had blinded him to the squalor of it. Now, when
enchantment had been staled by habit, his fastidiousness returned. It
wasn't only that Pink Roses were beginning to fade: he was beginning to
realise that pleasure demands its pleasance and Pink Roses an adequate
rose-bed.

And then came four days of Devonshire, with clear winds from the sea
such as never breathed strength and spirit into Oxford's mellow torpor:
four days too of The Steading's restful beauty, of real hills and
whispering coverts. And there were two days of golf on a distant
course, a season of great hitting with driver and brassie, fierce
efforts to make "fours" of fives, with rare successes and frequent
disaster. In the evenings John Berrisford was more wonderful than ever.

Nor was fresh company wanting. Margaret had a friend staying with her,
a Miss Freda Neilson. At first Martin thought her insignificant, but
he soon saw that her insignificance was intensely significant. She
wasn't just a small and timid person with nothing to be said for or
against her. In her quick-glancing eyes of deepest brown lurked
courage and speculation, and there was a charming ease about her
clothes and the swift movements of her body. She certainly was not a
frowsy intellectual, and the fact that Margaret had brought her down
for inspection was a guarantee that she wasn't a stupid little thing.

Martin had talked a little to her on Saturday night: after breakfast on
Sunday he noticed her on a seat in the garden enjoying the strong
sunshine. He went towards her and looked over her shoulder. She was
reading one of Mr Berrisford's more private French works. Careless of
Margaret to leave it about!

"On Sunday, too!" said Martin.

"Just to counteract the very English breakfast," she laughed. "I don't
think I ever ate so much in my life since I came here."

"My uncle's sound about breakfast. Those were true sausages."

"I suppose so. I don't think I'm very good at sausages. I'm afraid I
hanker after rolls and fruit and things."

"Then you're all wrong. You've no case at all."

"And who gave you permission to lay down the law about taste?"

"My own common-sense. How can two people talk unless someone starts by
dogmatising? Supposing I started off, 'Sausages m