'Hello, Isabell There you are.'

'Have you had a miserable drive? I'm so sorry we couldn't send a closed
carriage. I can't see you at all, you know.'

'I'm coming. No, I liked the drive--it was like Perthshire. Well, how are
you? You're looking fit as ever, as far as I can see.'

'Oh, yes,' said Isabel. 'I'm wonderfully well. How are you? Rather thin,
I think--'

'Worked to death--everybody's old cry. But I'm all right, Ciss. How's
Pervin?--isn't he here?'

'Oh, yes, he's upstairs changing. Yes, he's awfully well. Take off your
wet things; I'll send them to be dried.'

'And how are you both, in spirits? He doesn't fret?'

'No--no, not at all. No, on the contrary, really. We've been wonderfully
happy, incredibly. It's more than I can understand--so wonderful: the
nearness, and the peace--'

'Ah! Well, that's awfully good news--'

They moved away. Pervin heard no more. But a childish sense of desolation
had come over him, as he heard their brisk voices. He seemed shut
out--like a child that is left out. He was aimless and excluded, he did
not know what to do with himself. The helpless desolation came over him.