"But what, Yvonne?"
"I was about to propose a complete rest, Paul, but I know it would be useless if the working mood is upon you."
"You realise what it means to me, Yvonne. I should no more be justified in laying down my pen whilst there was more work to do than a soldier would be justified in laying down his sword in the heat of battle. You do not feel that this task which I have taken up has made a gulf between us?"
"It has done so in a sense," replied Yvonne, crumbling a fragment of bread between her fingers. "But I have never been so foolish as to become jealous of your work."
"I might have been in the army and stationed on the other side of the world," said Paul laughing.
"I am not complaining about your work, Paul."
"Yet you are not entirely happy."
"What makes you think so?"
"I don't know. I sometimes feel that you are not."
"I am quite happy," said Yvonne in the listless voice, and presently she went up to her room, Paul looking after her in a troubled way. He was uneasily searching his memory for a clue to the significance of that expression, vaguely familiar but unexpected, which he had noticed in Yvonne's face. He lighted his pipe and went into the study.