For the remaining days of Elizabeth’s absence George did no work whatever. And a very good thing too, for he needed a holiday. He stayed at Fanny’s flat. They made picnic meals in the flat, or ate out at places where they were pretty certain not to meet friends—City stockbrokers’ taverns or curious pubs with sawdust and spittoons on the floors, where you sat on stools at the bar and had a cut from the joint and two vegetables with beer. They went to “low” music-halls and saw all the primitive films of the day—Charlie’s were the only good ones—and for a lark went to see what the inside of the Abbey looked like, a place no Londoner ever visits. They agreed that it looked like the atelier of an incredibly bad academic sculptor installed in an overcrowded but rather beautiful Gothic barn. Fanny rather hated Gothic architecture, she said all those points and squiggles gave her the creeps; but George said that if you wanted to see the real spirit of mediæval sculpture you ought to look underneath the seats of the canon’s stalls. But they didn’t quarrel about that. They were far too happy. * * * * * Nothing more was said about Elizabeth, until the day before she returned. “You’ll meet her, of course?” said Fanny. “Of course.” “Well, give her my love.” “I suppose I ought to tell her about us,” said George reflectively. Fanny saw the danger in a flash. Her “freedom” was of a different kind from Elizabeth’s rather theoretical and idealizing kind. Fanny’s was light-hearted and practical; moreover, she had observed human beings and knew her Elizabeth far better than George did. She also knew her George. If George told Elizabeth, she knew quite well there would be a bust-up, that Elizabeth’s theories would be abandoned as speedily as on the former occasion. But she knew it was useless to reveal the truth to George. On the other hand, she didn’t want to lose him and didn’t want to “take him away” from Elizabeth—not until much later when Elizabeth started the struggle. Fanny knew that George had to be managed within the limits of masculine stupidity. “Oh, tell her if you like. But I shouldn’t discuss it with her, if I were you. She must have long ago felt subconsciously the attraction between us, and you can see by her attitude that she accepts it. I don’t see the need for all this talk and re-hashing of what’s a private and personal matter between two people. We’re so hypnotized by words, that we think nothing exists until we have talked about it. How can you interpret all these deep feelings and sensations in words? It’s because words don’t suffice that we need touch. Tell Elizabeth by loving her better.” “Then you really thinks she knows?” Fanny was a little annoyed. Why couldn’t he _see_, why couldn’t he take a hint?