‘No enemy but winter and rough weather,’ chanted a familiar voice.
‘Why, what brings you here, frightening lone women at this time of night? Shut and lock the door for me. The house will be blown out of the windows.’
Nancy retreated to her parlour, and stood there in an attitude of joyous expectation. Without hurry Tarrant hung up his coat and hat in the passage, then came forward, wiping rain from his moustache. Their eyes met in a smile, frank and confident.
‘Why have you come, Lionel?’
‘No reason in particular. The fancy took me. Am I unwelcome?’
For answer, his wife’s arms were thrown about him. A lovers’ meeting, with more of tenderness, and scarcely less of warmth, than when Nancy knocked at the door in Staple Inn.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Only for what you have given me.’
‘Some tea, then, after that wretched journey.’
‘No. How’s the boy?’