She fancied she saw coming the taxi which was to take her to the station, and she ran up-stairs to fetch her bag. Her familiar room was neat and desolate, with the green blinds pulled half-way down, the bureau and dressing-table stripped bare, the bed covered over with a sheet. All trace of her was obliterated. It saddened her; she took a last glance at herself in the darkened mirror and went out, closing the door behind her. She almost ran into Annie, who had been on the point of knocking on her door. "Mr. Vincent says he’d like to see you in the music-room for a few minutes," the maid said curtly. "No!" said Angelica, and then, almost immediately: "Yes!" After all, she ought to see him, after what he had done. She ought to thank him. Even if she were going to marry Eddie, there was no harm in that. In fact, Eddie would doubtless have approved of it. "He won’t eat me," she said. "Let’s see what he’s got to say!" She tried to prepare herself for anything, whether she found him pleading, passionate, brutal, or depressed. She felt herself quite strong enough to withstand any of his moods--stronger than he was. She entered again that little music-room where Mrs. Russell had interviewed her so long ago; but to-day it had taken on quite a new character. He had pulled the shades up to the top of the windows, so that the cold light of the rainy day came in to destroy the charm and romance of the armour, the harp, and the orange-shaded lamp that had so delighted her. Vincent sat on the piano-stool, writing on the closed piano. He was without a coat, in a gray flannel shirt and old blue trousers. His hair was all on end, in wildest disorder, and his face, when he turned to Angelica, was troubled and ecstatic. He looked boyish, very touching, and his manner was altogether unstudied. "Angelica!" he said. "Please listen to this! Just tell me--these few lines--do you get a picture at all? I mean--just tell me exactly how it makes you feel--not what you think of it, you know, but how you _feel_. Sit down, please, and keep quiet. Now, you know, this is almost the end of the thing--the chap’s losing his faith--before he has the vision. It’s free verse, of course--an impression: "Men crushed down, like worms under a heavy foot, Half stamped into the mud, but the other half Still squirming. Writhing corpses With writhing wounds, From which the blood squirts violently; And over it all, in a cloud of mist, rose and gold, Rides God. God! God! God, the father of all these mutilated animals! God Almighty, whose will it is to kill his sons in these hideous ways! He sees everything. He hears everything. He hears their yells, Their howls for pity and for death. He could stamp the worm Quite out of existence; Smear it into the ground so that it should be obliterated and At peace; But for His own good purposes, He lets it squirm!"