“You can use the desk,” he said curiously, “if you’re wanting to.” His politeness, his unusual solicitude for her comfort, was horrible! Normally, if she had been at his desk, he would have said: “Now look here, Cathie, it’s too bad of you to want to use my desk when I want it. After all, it’s _my_ desk. You’ve got all the day to use it when I’m out. Can’t you use the table?” She would have understood a speech like that. But for him to say so thoughtfully, so obsequiously, “You can use the desk if you’re wanting to,” was charged with all the nameless horror of the unprecedented. It was half-past six. The clock struck. He was assiduously and seemingly quite normally putting red-ink ticks and crosses on algebra sums. Yet she knew that the atmosphere was very far from being normal. She took a book from the shelf and sat down in the chair by the fire, but it was difficult to read. She could hear the ticking of the clock and the steady scratching of his pen, and flipping of pages. He went on for hours. When he had finished one pile of books he went to his desk and fetched out another. Then again, if he had not done so the first time, he must have seen the envelope with its incomplete address. But he went on with his work at the table. Supper time came, but he made no sign of clearing away his books. And then his surliness and sulkiness, whichever it was, ceased to frighten her, but began to annoy her acutely.... The last post went at eleven-thirty. Come what might she would post that letter. At five minutes past eleven she went over to the desk with the intention of finishing the address. She had got as far as the “p” in “Upton” when she saw that he was regarding her intently. As soon as he saw that she had noticed his glance he put down his pen and swung back on his chair. “Now then, Cathie,” he began brusquely, “this matter’s got to be settled.... You understand. No nonsense. What’re you going to do?” She bit the end of the penholder. “I’m going to accept the thing,” she said firmly, though she had difficulty in restraining her apprehension and excitement. “You’re not!” he cried, advancing menacingly. “Understand, I forbid it! I’m going to be firm in this business. You’re not to accept that situation. D’you hear?” He picked up the envelope she had been engaged upon. She knew that he had seen it before. But he pretended not to have done. She despised him for that little perfidy. “What’s this?” he cried, snatching it up vehemently. Then he pretended to realize. “You’ve been writing to accept it?” “Yes.” For a moment she thought he was going to do her physical violence. Then he tore the envelope across and flung the two pieces into the fire. “Oh, _that_ doesn’t matter,” she said contemptuously, “that’s merely childish. I can easily write another.” (In her anger she did not remember an occasion when she had been smitten with the same kind of childishness). It was then that he cried: “My God, Cathie, I won’t stand that! ... Out you go!”