She came away from the front table. Her hands were pressed against her breast; her face tormented. To Wilfred, who was wrought up too, that seemed natural. “Wilfred, tell me plainly what you have been doing these last months,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll tell you,” he said quickly, “I . . .” A cry escaped her. “No! Don’t tell me. . . . !” But he was already under way. “I fell in love, as they put it, with a woman who preferred Joe Kaplan to me,” he said bitterly. “You know all about Joe Kaplan. She married him. Well, that cured that. Afterwards I slid into an affair with a woman whom I despised. That soon ran its course. Then I went to the country and tried to haul myself up by my own boot-straps without succeeding. That’s all.” Frances Mary had returned to her chair. She was sitting forward in an attitude unnatural to her, her head lowered. “You experienced passion . . . for a woman you despised?” she murmured. “Yes,” said Wilfred. “That’s the point I was trying to make. That’s how easy it is. . . .” There was a silence. Then Frances Mary said in an uncertain voice: “You had better go.” Wilfred stared. “I won’t go for any such reason as that!” he said hotly. “Are you raising the banner of conventional morality! _You_ . . . !” She said: “Suppose I told you that _I_ . . . !” “Rubbish!” cried Wilfred. “It would be better for you if you had!” “Your ideas are loathsome!” cried Frances Mary with unexpected loudness. “This is what I get for trying to be honest!” “_Honest!_” Simultaneously it struck them what exhibitions they were making of themselves. They laughed in bitter vexation, and fell silent. They avoided each other’s eyes. “I apologize for shouting at you,” mumbled Wilfred. Frances Mary did not apologize, though she had shouted too. Presently something changed in her. She looked at Wilfred queerly. Settling back in her chair, she raised her head. “Wilfred, kiss me,” she said in a colorless voice. He looked at her sharply. Her face was drawn and ugly. His instinct bade him refuse; but she had told him to do it. He was absurdly under her influence. He went to her with a hangdog air, and printed a cold kiss on her lips. A little groan of rage was forced from Frances Mary. She sprang up so suddenly that her chair was knocked over backwards. All in the one movement, she fetched Wilfred such a smack on the cheek that his sight was blotted out for a moment. He fell back, covering the place, staring at her open-mouthed, clownishly. Frances Mary burst into tears; a catastrophic breakdown; her face working as absurdly and uglily as a small child’s; the tears fairly spurting from her eyes. Wilfred quickly recovered himself. He had to repress a desire to laugh. A load was lifted from his breast. She could feel! Frances Mary put her hands over her face, and turned away from him. “Go! Go!” she murmured. Wilfred walked to the other end of the room, and sat down on the couch. “I won’t go till I get to the bottom of this,” he said.