She lifted her head. “It’s raining,” she murmured. And her voice was like his when he had said: “I love that little boy.” Well. Why didn’t they just give way to it—yield—and see what will happen then? But no. Vague and troubled though they were, they knew enough to realize their precious friendship was in danger. She was the one who would be destroyed—not they—and they’d be no party to that. He got up, knocked out his pipe, ran his hand through his hair and said: “I have been wondering very much lately whether the novel of the future will be a psychological novel or not. How sure are you that psychology _qua_ psychology has got anything to do with literature at all?” “Do you mean you feel there’s quite a chance that the mysterious non-existent creatures—the young writers of to-day—are trying simply to jump the psycho-analyst’s claim?” “Yes, I do. And I think it’s because this generation is just wise enough to know that it is sick and to realize that its only chance of recovery is by going into its symptoms—making an exhaustive study of them—tracking them down—trying to get at the root of the trouble.” “But oh,” she wailed. “What a dreadfully dismal outlook.” “Not at all,” said he. “Look here . . .” On the talk went. And now it seemed they really had succeeded. She turned in her chair to look at him while she answered. Her smile said: “We have won.” And he smiled back, confident: “Absolutely.” But the smile undid them. It lasted too long; it became a grin. They saw themselves as two little grinning puppets jigging away in nothingness. “What have we been talking about?” thought he. He was so utterly bored he almost groaned. “What a spectacle we have made of ourselves,” thought she. And she saw him laboriously—oh, laboriously—laying out the grounds and herself running after, putting here a tree and there a flowery shrub and here a handful of glittering fish in a pool. They were silent this time from sheer dismay. The clock struck six merry little pings and the fire made a soft flutter. What fools they were—heavy, stodgy, elderly—with positively upholstered minds. And now the silence put a spell upon them like solemn music. It was anguish—anguish for her to bear it and he would die—he’d die if it were broken. . . . And yet he longed to break it. Not by speech. At any rate not by their ordinary maddening chatter. There was another way for them to speak to each other, and in the new way he wanted to murmur: “Do you feel this too? Do you understand it at all?” . . . Instead, to his horror, he heard himself say: “I must be off; I’m meeting Brand at six.” What devil made him say that instead of the other? She jumped—simply jumped out of her chair, and he heard her crying: “You must rush, then. He’s so punctual. Why didn’t you say so before?”