It intimidated Wilfred. “I was only speculating,” he said, his eyes trailing away. Inwardly he was in a panic. Was it Joe? . . . It could not be Joe. . . . But he knew that it _was_ Joe! The thought was like the recurrence of a madness. He fought against it blindly. . . . She had not succumbed. She was fighting. Something must be done to help her! . . . Elaine said, gloomily resting her chin on her palm: “Nobody can help anybody else, really. Each of us has his own particular hell.” “People _could_ help one another if they were sufficiently honest,” Wilfred insisted. “It requires a terrifying honesty. Once or twice in a lifetime, maybe . . . I’ve been helped.” Elaine’s look upon him was scarcely flattering. It said: Your case is hardly the same as mine! Something must be done! Something must be done! the panic-stricken voice cried within Wilfred. He despaired of finding the right words to say. He said nothing. “When you’re faced by a serious problem, should you listen to your heart or your head?” asked Elaine, flicking the ash off her cigarette. “To both,” he answered. “That’s merely silly,” she said with curling lip. “If they’re warring voices.” Wilfred flushed. “I was wrong,” he said. “It’s confusing. . . . I never can speak without thinking. You should listen to your heart always.” “Ah!” she said, with the air of one who had caught him out. “Then you believe that passion should override everything; all considerations of prudence; everything!” Wilfred felt his lips growing tight. “Passion does not always come from the heart,” he said. “As I understand it.” “What do you mean?” “There is infatuation.” At that word Elaine ran up her eyebrows in two little peaks; but Wilfred somehow found the courage to face her out. A silence succeeded, which shook him badly. A gush of foolish, emotional speech filled his mouth like warm blood. He grimly swallowed it, waiting. “Suppose one experienced a violent passion,” asked Elaine, with a casual air which concealed nothing from the man who loved her, “how on earth would one know whether it was love or infatuation?” “By the quality of the object,” he said quickly. “If it was worthy. . . .” “That’s nonsense!” she said scornfully. “If you were infatuated you would think the object was glorious anyhow.” Wilfred shook his head. “That’s where the heart comes in. No matter how blinded we may be, we each have a voice in our breasts that whispers the truth. Only we don’t want to listen.” “You must have a well-trained little prompter!” said Elaine. He looked at her. He could bear her gibes. He held his tongue, waiting for the right word. She said: “I’d have to have some surer guide than mysterious inner voices.” “That’s easy,” said Wilfred quickly. “If your passion is for a worthy object you feel proud; if it is not worthy, you suffer like the devil.” “I wasn’t talking about _my_ passion,” said Elaine laughing; but her long-lashed eyes were dreadfully haunted.