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that Penfold’s convenience should not be jeopardised. Very shrewd of her, thought Penfold. But he too knew how to wear the velvet glove.
    Her house was some half a mile away: visits were constantly exchanged. No man could have been more attentive to his mother-in-law, honorary or otherwise.
    In time, they slipped into a little routine. On Wednesday evenings, the Penfolds dined at Dalehurst, Mrs. Blagrove’s daily help staying after six. On Sundays, Mrs. Blagrove came for supper to Oakleigh, when Penfold would read aloud a selection from the poems of Miss Ella Wheeler Wilcox who, in Mrs. Blagrove’s affections, had never had a rival.
    Penfold became aware that on most days of the week Margaret would ‘run round’ to Dalehurst. Many minor domestic arrangements were traceable to Mrs. Blagrove; but they were sensible arrangements, which enhanced his comfort without impinging-on his authority. Margaret never quoted Aunt Agnes. It would have been unintelligent to deny that the old lady seemed to be playing no game but an unobtrusively benevolent one. He began to think highly of her, even to enjoy her company, except for the sessions of Miss Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Twice she insinuated a Mrs. Manfried, a fellow devotee. It was his sole grievance.
    A year passed, during which Penfold put back the weight he had lost after the collapse of his first marriage. His dream had come true. The women were jealous of Margaret, and the men, within the framework of correct behaviour, registered an envious appreciation of her. No longer did the smile of welcome seem to mask a sneer, tempered with pity.
    He could not bring himself to grudge the time his wife spent at Dalehurst, in his absence. Mrs. Blagrove’s prophecy that Margaret would make her husband unhappy had been stultified by the event. His life slipped into the pattern of his father’s.
    The inner history of an egocentric tends to repeat itself. The other half of Mrs. Blagrove’s prophecy—the half that was concerned with Margaret’s happiness—had slipped from Penfold’s memory. He was so happy himself that he had not felt the need to probe into the question of Margaret’s happiness—to explore her personality and her impulse. She was an efficient and economical housekeeper. She was of regular, orderly habits. She was lovely to look at and she was obedient in all things. His cup was full.

Chapter Three
    They had been married two years and a month when Mrs. Blagrove fell down in her bedroom and put a finger out of joint. The injury was beginning to be forgotten, when she fell down in the hall, bruising herself painfully. She was not too shaken, however, to come to supper on Sunday—to be whisked back to her girlhood by Penfold, in interpretation of Miss Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
    The following week, a trained nurse took up residence at Dalehurst, though Mrs. Blagrove seemed to ignore her presence and to carry on as usual. In the course of a fortnight, Margaret overcame her aunt’s reluctance to reveal the facts.
    â€œShe falls down because she suddenly loses consciousness,” Margaret told her husband. “It’s her heart. But Dr. Delmore says her life is in no danger.”
    Penfold expressed relief. But there was more to come.
    â€œThe air here is too bracing, Dr. Delmore says. She will have to sell up and leave. He recommends South Devon.”
    Some two hundred miles from London! That, Penfold admitted to himself, could be borne with equanimity. He was, in fact, about to say as such.
    â€œI’m sorry, Arthur dear, but I must go with her.”
    â€œYes, darling, of course you must! I’ll squeeze a week off, and we’ll all go down together and settle her in.”
    â€œDoctor Delmore says—” it was as if Penfold had not spoken “—that these little attacks may be frequent. They may come at any hour of the day or night. She might fall in the fire—under the traffic—anything.