'I don't know--it's awfully hard to define it--but something
strong and immediate. There's something strange in Maurice's
presence--indefinable--but I couldn't do without it. I agree that it
seems to put one's mind to sleep. But when we're alone I miss nothing; it
seems awfully rich, almost splendid, you know.'

'I'm afraid I don't follow,' said Bertie.

They talked desultorily. The wind blew loudly outside, rain chattered on
the window-panes, making a sharp, drum-sound, because of the closed,
mellow-golden shutters inside. The logs burned slowly, with hot, almost
invisible small flames. Bertie seemed uneasy, there were dark circles
round his eyes. Isabel, rich with her approaching maternity, leaned
looking into the fire. Her hair curled in odd, loose strands, very
pleasing to the man. But she had a curious feeling of old woe in her
heart, old, timeless night-woe.

'I suppose we're all deficient somewhere,' said Bertie.

'I suppose so,' said Isabel wearily.

'Damned, sooner or later.'

'I don't know,' she said, rousing herself. 'I feel quite all right, you
know. The child coming seems to make me indifferent to everything, just
placid. I can't feel that there's anything to trouble about, you know.'

'A good thing, I should say,' he replied slowly.