“On the contrary, I wanted to very much. That was just why I didn’t.” “I don’t quite----” “Listen. Did I ever tell you that I detest worms?” “No, but what----?” “Well, I do. I can’t stand them at any price.” “Nor can I, but how----” “Listen. When I was a tiny boy it used to send me almost into hysterics if I touched one, even by accident. Well, when I grew older, I used to despise myself for being so weak-minded. I used to gather all the worms I could find, fat juicy ones, you know, with red bellies, put them all into one single writhing heap and run my fingers through the lot! My flesh crept with the loathsomeness of it: I was often sick and gasping with horror after I had done it. But it gave me confidence, because it taught me I wasn’t at the mercy of arbitrary feelings. It showed me that I had myself under iron control....” “Well?” “Since I returned from Cambridge I have wanted to see you so often and so intensely that it seemed to me a capital opportunity for finding out if that iron control had at all relaxed.... I am pleased to say that it has not done so.” “But you wanted to see me?” “I did.” “Then what on earth was there to keep you from coming to visit me?” “Nothing at all except this--my own desire to be complete master of myself--greater even than my desire to see you.” “Why did you want to see me?” “I could think of no sensible reason for desiring to see you, and that was why I decided not to.” “Are you glad I have come now?” “No. I am sorry. You have interrupted my work.” “Have I? Thanks for telling me. Then I’ll go----” “Your going would not alter the fact that my work has been interrupted. I shall do no more work to-day, whether you go or not. I--I”--his voice became thick with anger, or scorn, or some complex combination of the two--“I have--been--spiritually interrupted!” She took off her thick furs and muff. “I’m going to stay,” she said quietly, “and we’re going to have tea and then go for a walk. I think you and your arguments are very silly.” It was immensely significant, that final sentence of hers. Before, she would never have dared to say such a thing to him. But now she felt he was in some strange way delivered into her power: she was not afraid of treating him like a baby. The truth was, he was no longer a god to her. And her task was, if possible, to strip from him the last remnants of his divinity. His strange conversation she had but half understood: but it immensely reassured her as to this subtle and mysterious power she possessed over him. But she divined that her task was difficult: she feared an explosion that would be catastrophic. The atmosphere was too tense for either comfort or safety: she would have to lower the temperature. And all the time her own heart was a raging furnace within her. “Mrs. Tebbutt is out,” he said gruffly. “I’m hanged if I know where anything is. I was going to go out to tea at Mason’s.” (Mason’s was the café in the Bockley High Street.)