Two
“How I wish they had never come here.”
Sandra Farraday uttered the words with such unusual bitterness that
her husband turned to look at her in surprise. It was as though his own
thoughts had been put into words—the thoughts that he had been trying
so hard to conceal¹. So Sandra, too, felt as he did? She, too, had felt that
Fairhaven was spoiled, its peace impaired², by these new neighbours a
mile away across the Park. He said, voicing his surprise impulsively³:
“I didn’t know you felt like that about them, too.”
Immediately, or so it seemed to him, she withdrew into herself.
“Neighbours are so important in the country. One has either to be rude
or friendly; one can’t, as in London, just keep people as amiable⁴ acquaint-
ances.”
“No,” said Stephen, “one can’t do that.”
“And now we’re committed to this extraordinary party.”
They were both silent, running over in their minds the scene at lunch.
George Barton had been friendly, even exuberant⁵ in manner, with a kind
of undercurrent of excitement of which they had both been conscious.
George Barton was really very odd these days. Stephen had never noticed
him much in the time preceding Rosemary’s death. George had just been
there in the background, the kindly⁶ dull husband of a young and beautiful
wife. Stephen had never even felt a pang⁷ of disquiet⁸ over the betrayal of
George. George had been the kind of husband who was born to be be-
trayed. So much older—so devoid⁹ of the attractions necessary to hold an

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