"By the way, I'm going out with this car to-morrow."
"So you told me," she answered.
"Had I mentioned it before?" he said thickly. "Well ... I shall be out all day."
"Thank you for telling me. It's considerate of you. We make a little difference in the catering if you're out."
He clenched his hand round the wheel.
"I'm running down to Brighton; but I shall get back to town for dinner; late motoring's pretty cold in November. I shall be dining at Pagani's—where we used to go so much, you remember."
"I remember. I hope you'll have a fine day."
He gave a savage twitch to the hand-brake, let in his clutch, and in a moment or two the car ran forward.
"It beats me," he whispered to himself. "It—just—beats—me."
His whisper was lost in the rush of the car down the hill. His wife had leaned back snugly under the fur rug and her profile in the moonlight was serene, neither happy nor unhappy, but absolutely complacent. He seemed to get a glimpse of their future, with her figure travelling away into a far distance, divergent from his.