Peter “dived in” at exactly five o’clock on a gorgeous afternoon in earliest June. They were having tea on the sunk lawn—she, he, Francis, Beatrice, and the two children. And quite suddenly, watching her as she bent over the table, he knew an insane impulse. He wanted to cuddle his own wife, in full sunshine, shamelessly; he wanted “these people” out of the way. Instead, he asked her for another cup of tea!

But this “insane impulse” (so he phrased it to himself) refused to be suppressed. It recurred constantly that day, the next day and the day after. It became an obsession. He argued with it: “Don’t be a fool, P.J. She’ll think you’ve gone crazy. You have gone crazy....”

Then, he began to think about her, as Heron Baynet had taught him to think, in pictures. He saw her kneeling at the altar, on their honeymoon, in Lowndes Square, at Brighton, in Harley Street. Always, she had been his pal. Damn it, he didn’t want her for his pal—he wanted to cuddle her. She became of a sudden so attractive that he could hardly sit opposite to her at the dinner-table....

He said to himself: “But what more do you want of her? She’s yours, isn’t she?” ...

Followed self-reproach. What a wife she’d been to him! What a wife!! But had he ever appreciated her? No, he had not. He’d been a perfect cad to her.... What a wife! Had she ever grumbled? No, she had not. Had he ever grumbled? Yes, he had. When he lost his money, did she complain? No, she didn’t. Did he? Yes, he did ... et caetera, et caetera....

But the most amazing incident of those most amazing days was the simultaneous recurrence of two mind-pictures. In one picture, he lay on a bed, screens round it, and she looked down on him, love unmistakable in her eyes. In the other—but the other was incredible. He refused to believe that other. “I have gone crazy,” he repeated, “perfectly crazy.” ...

He decided himself the victim of hallucinations; and went on with his farming-plans.... But farming-plans could not exorcise the desire to cuddle Patricia, to hold her hand, to tell her that she was the only woman in the world, that he loved her madly....

Finally, he determined to risk it. At the worst, she would only laugh. He realized that if she laughed he would hit her. Courage braced to the sticking-point, he waited his opportunity. ...

And no opportunity came! They were never alone—except late at night, and “late at night” wouldn’t do. It wasn’t a “late at night” mood. It wasn’t a married mood at all. “Damn it!” said Peter Jameson, “can’t a man cuddle his own wife in the middle of the day if he wants to?”

But he couldn’t! Something or somebody always interfered: servants, children, visitors, Fry, the house. He began to hate “the house.” “The house” spoiled everything. He must get her away from the house, from Fanny and Elizabeth, from the children, from Fry and “those damn chickens” and Prudence the pig....

At last, the great idea came. To himself, he called it their “second honeymoon”: to her, he said he wanted a “holiday.” The river in June and July was “top-hole”; he’d always wanted to punt—nothing but a punt seemed adequate—from Goring to Oxford, well not exactly Oxford, beyond Oxford, say Godstone. They might punt to Godstone and see Arthur. They might go further up Thames. It depended how he felt. He’d not been feeling very well lately. He wanted a change.

She demurred: one couldn’t leave the children. He sulked—cannily. Then he went to see Beatrice.

“You wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on things when we’re away?”

“But why do you want to go?” asked Francis’ wife. She had installed herself in the oak-panelled morning-room; looked like a blonde cendrÉe lily in the mellow gloom of its beeswaxed walls.

“Just for a holiday,” prevaricated Peter; but he blushed faintly as he spoke.

“Don’t English people ever tell the truth?” she said understandingly.

He hesitated the fraction of a second before answering: “Very rarely—about that sort of thing.”

Two days later, perfectly unconscious of the web which had been woven round her, Patricia yielded; and they started on the twelfth of June: two very ordinary people with two very ordinary suit-cases and a large luncheon-basket: he in white duck trousers, brogued buskin shoes, and flannel blazer; she in shantung coat and skirt, remnant of Lodden Lodge holidays—Écru velours hat, Beatrice’s gift, shading her slumbrous eyes....