"Geoffrey! What are you going to do?"
"I am going to live my own life. I am going to earn my own living under the shelter of a roof for which I myself have paid. I am going to meet you with the gloves off, in fair and open fight, not behind a hedgerow, with a gun in my hand, Mr. Philip Ayre."
"Geoffrey, any—any hour I may be taken ill."
"What do you wish me to do? I will stay here until you are well, but only until then, on the understanding that not a penny of your money is to be used for me."
"The children are upstairs. Won't you—won't you let them in?"
"Let them stay upstairs. Philippa! What is the matter?"
Her time was come—that was the matter. By noon their fourth child was born.
When the nurse came to the sitting-room door, she found Geoffrey pacing round and round like some wild creature in a cage.
"Mr. Ford, sir?"
He looked round with a start.