She took her hand away.

‘I didn’t know-I don’t think anyone knew.’

He was frowning.

‘It’s the best part of three weeks since I cabled Lila. Haven’t you been seeing her?’

‘Not very often.’

‘Ray-what is all this? Why haven’t you seen her? Has she been ill? Have you quarrelled?’

‘No, of course not. She just hasn’t had time. Lady Dryden’s been rushing her off her feet-and you know what she’s like. Lila just can’t stand up to her.’

He turned away with an abrupt movement and sat staring out of the window for the rest of the way. But when they had paid off the taxi, and left the luggage in the hall, and gone up in the small automatic lift to the flat where Ray boarded with a middle-aged cousin, he turned round from shutting the sitting-room door and said bluntly,

‘What’s wrong? You’d better let me have it.’

Ray said, ‘Yes.’

She went over to the piano and stood there looking down at the polished rosewood top and stripping off her gloves. Cousin Rhoda always would keep flowers on the piano. The red and bronze chrysanthemums were reflected in the polished wood, their colours dimmed and withdrawn. She said slowly,

‘Yes, there’s something wrong.’

‘What is it?’

‘Haven’t you heard from Lila?’

‘No.’

She said, ‘Oh!’ It was an involuntary sound of pain. She came a step nearer. ‘She ought to have written-somebody ought to have written.’

‘What is it?’

After all, you can’t break bad news, you can only tell it. She made her voice steady and told him.

‘She is going to marry Sir Herbert Whitall.’

There was a frightful silence. Herbert Whitall’s name seemed to hang in it. It went on and on.

In the end Ray made herself move-look at him. He had the thick pale skin which sometimes goes with great physical strength. Now, with all the blood drained from it, he had a ghastly Mr. He said in a horrid strained voice,

‘It’s not true.’