'We are both looking forward so much to having it,' she said.

'Yes, of course,' said Bertie.

He was a bachelor, three or four years older than Isabel. He lived in
beautiful rooms overlooking the river, guarded by a faithful Scottish
man-servant. And he had his friends among the fair sex--not lovers,
friends. So long as he could avoid any danger of courtship or marriage,
he adored a few good women with constant and unfailing homage, and he was
chivalrously fond of quite a number. But if they seemed to encroach on
him, he withdrew and detested them.

Isabel knew him very well, knew his beautiful constancy, and kindness,
also his incurable weakness, which made him unable ever to enter into
close contact of any sort. He was ashamed of himself, because he could
not marry, could not approach women physically. He wanted to do so. But
he could not. At the centre of him he was afraid, helplessly and even
brutally afraid. He had given up hope, had ceased to expect any more that
he could escape his own weakness. Hence he was a brilliant and successful
barrister, also _litterateur_ of high repute, a rich man, and a great
social success. At the centre he felt himself neuter, nothing.

Isabel knew him well. She despised him even while she admired him. She
looked at his sad face, his little short legs, and felt contempt of him.
She looked at his dark grey eyes, with their uncanny, almost childlike
intuition, and she loved him. He understood amazingly--but she had no
fear of his understanding. As a man she patronized him.

And she turned to the impassive, silent figure of her husband. He sat