eaping to conclusions over
the head of his own mathematical and exact reasoning. He distrusted
still more her tendency to be right in the teeth of every sort of
evidence to the contrary. It seemed that she took into her
calculations factors that no one else found, significant,
unprofessional straws in the wind, things she could not even explain.

And yet she understood when he talked about his work, and that alone
was like a gift to him. No one else understood--for that matter, no
one else had had to listen. He knew that Christine was too tired, and
poor overburdened Cosgrave would only have gazed helplessly at him,
wondering why this strong, self-sufficient friend should pour out such
unintelligible stuff over his own aching head. So he had learnt to be
silent. Even now it was difficult to begin. He stammered and was shy
and distrustful and eager, sometimes crudely self-confident, like a
child who has played alone too long.

And Francey listened, for the most part critical and dispassionate, but
with sudden gestures of unmotivated tenderness: as when in the midst of
his dissertation on a theory of insanity and crime she had kissed him.

Sometimes for them both the prose and poetry of their relationship met
and clasped hands. That was when they took their walk down Harley
Street to have another look at the house which was one day to be
adorned with the celebrated brass plates. At present it was solidly
occupied by several eminent-sounding medical gentlemen who would have
to be ruthlessly dislodged when their time came.

For it was the best house in the street, and, of course, the Doctors
Robert and Francey Stonehouse would have to have the best.

And once they quarrelled about nothing at all, or about
everything--they hardly knew. It was an absurd quarrel, which blazed
up and went out again like fire in stubble. Perhaps they had waited
too long for their allotted hour together--dreamed too much about it,
so that when it came they could hardly bear it, and almost longed for
it to be over. And in the midst of it Mr. Ricardo drifted in on one of
his strange, distressful visits to Christine, and drove them out of
doors to roam the drowsy Sunday streets, hand in hand, like any other
pair of vulgar, homeless lovers. For Francey could not stay when Mr.
Ricardo came. His hatred of her was a burning, poisonous sore that
gave no peace to any of them.

"It's a sort of jealousy," Robert reflected. "We three hav