The two had enjoyed every moment of war-time London,
dancing, flirting, taking part, by way of doing their bit, in every
form of the lighter kind of war charities, their ideal existence only
broken by the occasional boredom of having to entertain their respective
husbands when the latter were home on leave.
Then had come the short interval in Egypt during which the Croftons had
met Godfrey Radmore, and, after that for Enid, another delightful stretch
of London life.
She had felt it intolerable to go back to the old, dull life, on an
income which seemed smaller than ever with rising prices, and everything
sacrificed, or so it had seemed to her, to Colonel Crofton's new,
dog-breeding hobby. She resented too, perhaps, more bitterly than she
knew herself, her husband's altered attitude to herself. From having been
passionately, foolishly in love, he had become critical, and, what to her
was especially intolerable, jealous. For a time she had kept up with some
of her war-time acquaintances, but there was a strain of curious timidity
in her nature, and she grew afraid of Colonel Crofton. Even now, when
Enid Crofton, free at last, remembered those dreary months in the shabby
little manor-house which Colonel Crofton had taken after the Armistice,
she told herself, with a quickened pulse, that flesh and blood cannot
stand more than a certain amount of dulness and discomfort.
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