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with him again in a few days’ time, and in that happy expectation Magnus was hardly aware of any imperfection in the present. The affair lasted for some weeks, and he gradually became depressed by it. Margaret’s attractions were less distinguished and more limited than he had found them a few years earlier, and her essential remoteness, her intangible secret power that had once allured him, he now discovered to be merely self-absorption. She had no great interest in anything but herself and her children, and while it was to her credit as a mother that she should postpone embraces to speak of Nigel’s talent for drawing, and Rosemary’s interest in religion, it did not contribute to her success as a lover. But she appeared quite willing to continue as Merriman’s mistress.
    One evening in January he was waiting for her somewhat resentfully in a restaurant that she favoured not so much for its food as for its customers, many of whom were well-known theatrical and literary people. She was late. Magnus drank some sherry and began to hope that she would not come. The noise of the restaurant irritated him, and the surrounding laughter and conversation, hard and brittle as the clink of plates and glasses, roused an impatient desire to silence it with some outrageous gesture. He thought how pleasant it would be to hurl his table, with its load of cutlery and crockery, into a neighbouring dinner-party, wine glasses spilling their load on naked and astounded shoulders, knives and forks clattering against the white armour of evening shirts—or to run amok with that wagon of hors d’oeuvres and succulently bespatter the room with a tropical storm ofanchovies and olives; here a flutter of red cabbage, there a damp vari-coloured imprint of Russian salad, a miraculous draught of sardines, the chill descent of eggs, and the thick impingement of cold potatoes. His pleasure in this vision mitigated his dislike of the diners who inspired it, and when Margaret arrived he was fairly cheerful.
    At the age of twenty-nine she was very nearly as pretty as she had been at twenty-two, and what little she had lost was more than recouped in the smartness of her attire. The provincial gaiety that characterized her dress in Inverdoon had given way to a well-thought-of obedience to fashion, and she had learnt the proper use of cosmetics. She apologized for her lateness without embarrassment.
    â€˜I’ve been terribly busy,’ she said. ‘Everybody’s got influenza, and I’ve scarcely had time to sit down for days. I nearly rang you up to say that I couldn’t come out tonight, but I wanted to, so I hurried through the surgery patients and let Nanny put the children to bed. I told Nigel where I was going, and he asked me if I meant to marry you. He’s got very grown-up ideas, and he’s fearfully interested in you.’
    â€˜Hors d’oeuvres or smoked salmon?’ asked Magnus.
    â€˜Smoked salmon, I think. What’s the matter? Aren’t you feeling well? You look terribly gloomy. It’s this beastly weather. I need a holiday myself: I’d go abroad if I could, but the practice, of course, ties me down hand and foot.’
    â€˜You look fit enough.’
    â€˜Well, I’m too busy to be really ill, but I do need a holiday, and if I were as free as you are, I’d take one. Why don’t you go away for a while?’
    â€˜I’m going to.’
    â€˜I’m sure that’s the best thing to do. I’ll miss you terribly, but you’ll be much more cheerful when you come back, and we’ll go on having a good time, won’t we?’
    â€˜I shan’t come back,’ said Magnus.
    Like a flock of sheep in the morning, gently moving in a mist whose fringes are pale gold and briar-pink, Margaret’s words travelled with a deceptive grace: but examine them coolly and they were nothing more than butcher’s sheep. Once upon a time Magnus had thought