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Mr Marble was speaking to his wife.

‘What about some supper, Annie?’ he was saying. ‘I expect our young friend here is hungry.’

‘But—’ began Mrs Marble hopelessly, and then checked herself hastily and clumsily as she caught sight of her husband frowning at her.

‘Don’t worry about me, please,’ put in Medland. ‘I dined just before I came out.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ replied Marble. ‘I dined just after I came in.’

And he laughed. The laughter was just the least bit strained.

Conversation began again, resuming its hopeless, desultory way while Medland wondered in a bored, young man’s fashion why on earth he did not get up and go at once. There were really several reasons. One was that the wind and the rain were continually making themselves heard outside; another was that the fire was most attractive—it was the most attractive thing in the whole house—but deep down there was a feeling of relief that he was not in a hotel with nothing special to do. Medland had laid plans for a very exciting time on his arrival in England, but at the moment he was feeling a little homesick and not in the mood for excitement of any kind. It might have been as well if he had felt otherwise.