And he was profoundly stirred. He had not believed her capable of such passionate outburst. For a moment he stood perfectly still, viewing her from that part of the room to which his pacings up and down had chanced to lead him at the moment. Then he slowly approached her cowering form. She was sobbing violently. He put his hand lightly on her shoulder and drew it away immediately. The spectacle of her grief made him curiously embarrassed. He seemed afraid to touch her. “Cathie,” he spoke gruffly. She made no sign of answer. But the sobbing stopped, and in a moment she raised her head. She stood upright, with her head flung backwards and her face turned to his. She was not beautiful, but passion had given her face a spiritual sublimity. Tears were still in her eyes and down her cheeks; her eyes, dim and blurred, were shining like the sun through the edges of April clouds. And all about her head and face and shoulders her hair was flung in gorgeous disarray. Red as flame it was, and passionate as the whole look and poise of her. He bent to her very simply and kissed her on the forehead. There was no hungry eagerness about his movement, yet the very simplicity of it seemed to indicate terrific restraint. She stood perfectly still, as if hypnotized. “Now,” he said quietly, “you and I are friends again, aren’t we?” She nodded. There was the grating of a key in the lock of the front door. They both waited in silence. Then there were footsteps in the hall. “Mrs. Tebbutt!” he called. He was tremendously, inexpressibly relieved at her arrival. Mrs. Tebbutt, discreet as always, opened the door and entered. “You might come and clear these things away, will you?” he said, in a perfectly ordinary tone. “Very good, sir.” The spell was broken. Catherine did not stay long after that. Conversation between them was difficult because it was carefully commonplace. Mrs. Tebbutt kept coming in and out. And when Catherine left, his handshake at the gate was just normally cordial, neither more nor less so than usual.... CHAPTER XVII THE CRISIS § 1 WALKING amongst the trampled snow of the Ridgeway, it was difficult for her to decide the significance of what had happened. It was not easy to determine how far her passionate outburst had been a thing of art and how far she had been unable to restrain it. Not that her passion was in any sense unreal or artificial; but her aim had been to excite his sympathies and she had succeeded so well that it was hardly possible to regard her actions as entirely unpremeditated. There had been such consummate artistry on her part that it seemed impossible that for a single moment could she have entirely abandoned herself to her feelings. Yet her tears had been thoroughly genuine, and she was speaking the truth when she said that he had hurt her more than she had ever been hurt before.