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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 leaning back, with folded arms, and face a little uptilted. His knees were straight and massive. She sighed, picked up the poker, and again began to prod the fire, to rouse the clouds of soft, brilliant sparks.

‘Isabel tells me,’ Bertie began suddenly, ‘that you have not suffered unbearably from the loss of sight.’

Maurice straightened himself to attend, but kept his arms folded.

‘No,’ he said, ‘not unbearably. Now and again one struggles against it, you know. But there are compensations.’

‘They say it is much worse to be stone deaf,’ said Isabel.

‘I believe it is,’ said Bertie. ‘Are there compensations?’ he added, to Maurice.

‘Yes. You cease to bother about a great many things.’ Again Maurice stretched his figure, stretched the strong muscles of his back, and leaned backwards, with uplifted face.

‘And that is a relief,’ said Bertie. ‘But what is there in place of the bothering? What replaces the activity?’

There was a pause. At length the blind man replied, as out of a negligent, unattentive thinking:

‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s a good deal when you’re not active.’

‘Is there?’ said Bertie. ‘What, exactly? It always seems to me that when there is no thought and no action, there is nothing.’

Again Maurice was slow in replying.

‘There is something,’ he replied. ‘I couldn’t tell you what it is.’

And the talk lapsed once more, Isabel and Bertie chatting gossip and reminiscence, the blind man silent.

At length Maurice rose restlessly, a big, obtrusive figure. He felt tight and hampered. He wanted to go away.

‘Do you mind,’ he said, ‘if I go and speak to Wernham?’

‘No–go along, dear,’ said Isabel.

And he went out. A silence came over the two friends. At length Bertie said:

‘Nevertheless, it is a great deprivation, Cissie.’

‘It is, Bertie. I know it is.’

‘Something lacking all the time,’ said Bertie.

‘Yes, I know. And yet–and yet–Maurice is right. There is something else, something there, which you never knew was there, and which you can’t express.’

‘What is there?’ asked Bertie.

‘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.