"I'm Henry's wife."

"You care for me."

She said again:

"I'm Henry's wife."

She repeated it like an article of faith.

When she got home, Henry was lying stretched out on the sofa. He was wearing white flannels.

"I think I've strained a muscle." He made a faint grimace of pain.

"What have you been doing?"

"Played tennis at Roehampton."

"You and Stephen? I thought you were going to play golf."

"We changed our minds. Stephen brought Mary along, and Jessica Sandys made a fourth."

"Jessica? Is that the dark girl we met at the Archers the other night?"

"Er-yes-she is."

"Is she your latest?"

"Shirley! I told you, I promised you…"

"I know, Henry, but what are promises? She is your latest-I can see it in your eye."

Henry said sulkily:

"Of course, if you're going to imagine things…"

"If I'm going to imagine things," Shirley murmured, "I'd rather imagine an island."

"Why an island?"

Henry sat up on the sofa and said: "I really do feel stiff."

"You'd better have a rest to-morrow. A quiet Sunday for a change."

"Yes, that might be nice."

But the following morning Henry declared that the stiffness was passing off.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "we agreed to have a return."

"You and Stephen and Mary-and Jessica?"

"Yes."

"Or just you and Jessica?"

"Oh, all of us," he said easily.

"What a liar you are, Henry."

But she did not say it angrily. There was even a slight smile in her eyes. She was remembering the young man she had met at the tennis party four years ago, and how what had attracted her to him had been his detachment. He was still just as detached.

The shy embarrassed young man who had come to call the following day, and who had sat doggedly talking to Laura until she herself returned, was the same young man who was now determinedly in pursuit of Jessica.

'Henry,' she thought, 'has really not changed at all.'

'He doesn't want to hurt me,' she thought, 'but he's just like that. He always has to do just what he wants to do.'

She noticed that Henry was limping a little, and she said impulsively:

"I really don't think you ought to go and play tennis-you must have strained yourself yesterday. Can't you leave it until next week-end?"

But Henry wanted to go, and went.

He came back about six o'clock and dropped down on his bed looking so ill that Shirley was alarmed. Notwithstanding Henry's protests, she went and rang up the doctor.

As Laura rose from lunch the following afternoon the telephone rang.

"Laura? It's me, Shirley."

"Shirley? What's the matter? Your voice sounds queer."

"It's Henry, Laura. He's in hospital. He's got polio." 'Like Charles,' thought Laura, her mind rushing back over the years. 'Like Charles…'

The tragedy that she herself had been too young to understand acquired suddenly a new meaning.

The anguish in Shirley's voice was the same anguish that her own mother had felt.

Charles had died. Would Henry die?

She wondered. Would Henry die?

"Infantile paralysis is the same as polio, isn't it?" she asked Mr. Baldock doubtfully.

"Newer name for it, that's all-why?"

"Henry has gone down with it."

"Poor chap. And you're wondering if he's going to get over it?"

"Well-yes."

"And hoping he won't?"

"Really, really. You make me out a monster."

"Come now, young Laura-the thought was in your mind."

"Horrible thoughts do pass through one's mind," said Laura. "But I wouldn't wish anyone dead-really I wouldn't."

"No," said Mr. Baldock thoughtfully. "I don't believe you would-nowadays-"

"What do you mean-nowadays? Oh, you don't mean that old business of the Scarlet Woman?" She couldn't help smiling at the remembrance. "What I came in to tell you was that I shan't be able to come in and see you every day for a bit. I'm going up to London by the afternoon train-to be with Shirley."

"Does she want you?"

"Of course she'll want me," said Laura indignantly. "Henry's in hospital. She's all alone. She needs someone with her."

"Probably-yes, probably. Quite right. Proper thing to do. It doesn't matter about me."

Mr. Baldock, as a semi-invalid, got a lot of pleasure out of an exaggerated self-pity.

"Darling, I'm terribly sorry, but-"

"But Shirley comes first! All right, all right… who am I? Only a tiresome old fellow of eighty, deaf, semi-blind-"

"Baldy-"

Mr. Baldock suddenly grinned and closed one eyelid.

"Laura," he said, "you're a push-over for hard luck stories. Anyone who's sorry for himself doesn't need you to be sorry for him as well. Self-pity is practically a full-time occupation."

"Isn't it lucky I didn't sell the house?" said Laura.

It was three months later. Henry had not died, but he had been very near death.

"If he hadn't insisted upon going out and playing tennis after the first signs, it wouldn't have been so serious. As it is-"

"It's bad-eh?"

"It's fairly certain that he'll be a cripple far life."

"Poor devil."

"They haven't told him that, of course. And I suppose there's just a chance… but perhaps they only say that to cheer up Shirley. Anyway, as I said, it's lucky I haven't sold the house. It's queer-I had a feeling all along that I oughtn't to sell it. I kept saying to myself it was ridiculous, that it was far too big for me, that since Shirley hadn't any children they would never want a house in the country. And I was quite keen to take on this job, running the Children's Home in Milchester. But as it is, the sale hasn't gone through, and I can withdraw and the house will be there for Shirley to bring Henry to when he gets out of hospital. That won't be for some months, of course."

"Does Shirley think that's a good plan?"

Laura frowned.

"No, for some reason she's most reluctant. I think I know why."

She looked up sharply at Mr. Baldock.

"I might as well know-Shirley may have told you what she wouldn't like to tell me. She's got practically none of her own money left, has she?"

"She hasn't confided in me," said Mr. Baldock, "but no, I shouldn't think she had." He added: "I should imagine Henry's gone tbrough pretty well all he ever had, too."

"I've heard a lot of things," said Laura. "From friends of theirs and other people. It's been a terribly unhappy marriage. He's gone through her money, he's neglected her, he's constantly had, affairs with other women. Even now, when he's so ill, I can't bring myself to forgive him. How could he treat Shirley like that? If anyone deserved to be happy, Shirley did. She was so full of life and eagerness and-and trust." She got up and walked restlessly about the room. She tried to steady her voice as she went on:

"Why did I ever let her marry Henry? I could have stopped it, you know, or at any rate delayed it so that she would have had time to see what he was like. But she was fretting so-she wanted him. I wanted her to have what she wanted."

"There, there, Laura"

"And it's worse than that. I wanted to show that I wasn't possessive. Just to prove that to myself, I let Shirley in for a lifetime of unhappiness."

"I've told you before, Laura, you worry too much about happiness and unhappiness."

"I can't bear to see Shirley suffer! You don't mind, I suppose."

"Shirley, Shirley! It's you I mind about, Laura-always have. Ever since you used to ride round the garden on that fairy-cycle of yours looking as solemn as a judge. You've got a capacity for suffering, and you can't minimise it as some can, by the balm of self-pity. You don't think about yourself at all."