"At three. You have not seen him?" Beryl shook her head. "They are taking him into the country. We shall never see him again," she said simply. "He will not send for us. I am trying to approach it all in the proper spirit of detachment. He is a little difficult to live up to--don't you feel that?" "If I say 'no' you will think I am eaten up with vanity," said Christina with a quick smile. "I am rather exalted at the moment, but the reaction will come perhaps, in which case I shall want to hang on to your understanding." At three o'clock the car arrived. Mrs. Colebrook saw her daughter go without regret. Christina was unnatural. She had not shed a tear. Mrs. Colebrook had heard her laughing and had gone up in a hurry to deal with hysteria, only to find her reading Stephen Leacock. She was appalled. "I am surprised at you, Christina! Here is poor--Mr. Sault in prison--" Words failed her, she could only make miserable noises. "Mother has given me up," said Christina, when she was lying on a big settee in Beryl's room, her thin hand outstretched to the blaze. "Mother is a sort of female Hericletos--she finds her comfort in weeping." Beryl was toasting a muffin at the fire. "I wish it were a weeping matter," she said, and went straight to the subject uppermost in her mind. "Moropulos took a photograph of me coming from Ronald Morelle's flat. I had spent the night there." She looked at the muffin and turned it. "Moropulos was--nasty. He must have told Ambrose that he knew." Christina stirred on the sofa. "Did Ambrose know?" "Yes: I told him. Not the name of the man, but he guessed, I think--I know the photograph was in the safe. He went to Ronnie. Perhaps to kill him. I imagine Ronnie lied for his life. The police were looking for Ambrose. The--killing of Moropulos was discovered by a man who heard the shot and the car had just passed through Woking after the police had been warned. A detective saw the car outside Ronnie's flat and followed it. I don't know all the details. Father has seen the inspector in charge of the case. Do you like sugar in your tea?" "Two large pieces," said Christina, "I am rather a baby in my love of sugar. Do you love Ronnie very much, Beryl--you don't mind?" "No--please. Love him? I suppose so: in a way. I despise him, I think he is loathsome, but there are times when I have a--wistful feeling. It may be sheer ungovernable--you know. Yet--I would make no sacrifice for Ronnie. I feel that. I have made no sacrifice. Women are hypocrites when they talk of 'giving': they make a martyrdom of their indulgence. Some women. And it pleases them to accept the masculine view of their irresponsibility. They love sympathy. For Ambrose I would sacrifice--everything. It is cheap to say that I would give my life. I have given more than my life. So have you." Christina was silent.