"I can't spare ten minutes. I'm late as it is, and I have to be back by half-past three. I've got an appointment." "You've not time to get there and back. You'd better put it off." "I can't, Ted. They're only up from Friday till Monday. Dean Craven has to preach at the Abbey to-morrow. Come again." "I can't come again." "Well, then----" she hesitated. "You may walk part of the way with me." He went with her down the short flagged path that led to the gate. Once out of the servant's hearing, he stopped, and looked firmly in her face. "I must see you now, and it had better be in the house. I've only one question to ask you. Five minutes will be enough for that--at least it won't be my fault if it isn't." She had laid her hand on the gate, which Ted held shut, and her mouth was obstinately set. Something in his voice conquered her self-will. She turned and led the way to the house. "You had better come into the morning-room." He followed her; she closed the door, and they stood facing each other a moment without speaking. "Well, Ted?" Her voice went to his heart with its piercing sweetness. "Audrey, why did you write that letter?" "Because it was easier to write what I did than to say it. Do you want to hold me to my word?" "No. I want to know your reasons for breaking it. You haven't given me any yet." "I did, Ted. I told you it had all been a mistake--yours and mine." "Speak for yourself. Where was my mistake?" "The mistake was in our ever getting engaged at all--in our thinking that we cared for each other." "I cared enough for you, didn't I?" "No, you didn't. You only thought you did. Katherine told me----" "What did Katherine tell you?" "That you hadn't any feelings, that you really cared for nothing but your painting, that you'd only a ru--rudimentary heart." "Really? That is interesting. When did she tell you that?" "The very day we were engaged." "And you believed her?" "Not then. I did afterwards." "How long afterwards--the other day?" "Ye-yes; I think so." "I see--when you wanted to believe it. Not before." She was trembling, but she gathered together all her feeble forces for the defence. "No, no; don't you remember? At the very first--the day of our engagement--we were both so miserable at the idea of your going away--we did it all so recklessly--before either of us thought. You see, Ted, you were so very young." "It's a pity that didn't strike you before." "It did, it did; but I wouldn't think of it. I blinded myself. The fact is, we were both as mad as hatters. You know people can't get married in that state. We should have had to wait for a--a lucid interval." Ted recognised the miserable pleasantry; it was what he had said to her himself a day or two after their engagement. The phrase had amused Audrey at the time and lodged in her memory. She borrowed it now in her hour of need, and laughed, unconscious of her plagiarism.