She made no attempt to rise. “When do I see you again, Gordon? Life is so blank and miserable without you. Does Diana monopolise you so entirely? People wouldn’t understand, would they? I don’t love you and you do not love me. If you thought I loved you, you would never see me again.” She laughed quietly. “It is just your soul and mind”--her voice was very low--“just the clear channel of understanding that makes our minds as one. Love doesn’t bring that, or marriage.” “It is rather wonderful.” He nodded many times. “Extraordinary--people would never understand.” She thought they wouldn’t. “I’m just aching for The Day to come,” she said, staring across the river. “I don’t think it ever will come: not The Day of my dreams.” Gordon Selsbury had this premonition too; had been waiting all afternoon to translate his doubt into words. “I’ve been thinking the matter over, Heloise--that trip to Ostend. Of course, it would be lovely seeing one another every day and all day, and living, if not under the same roof, at least in the same environment. The uninterrupted contact of mind--that is beautifully appealing. But do you think it wise? I am speaking, of course, from your point of view. Scandal doesn’t touch a man grossly.” She turned her glorious eyes to his. “‘They say: what say they? Let them say,’” she quoted contemptuously. He shook his head. “Your name is very precious to me,” he said, not without a hint of emotion, “very precious, Heloise. I feel that, although the Ostend season is past and most of the hotels are closed and visitors have dispersed, as I understand they do disperse from fashionable seaside resorts, there is a possibility, a bare possibility, that we should see somebody there who knew me--us, I mean--and who would put the worst possible construction upon what--er--would be the most innocent intellectual recreation. It is extremely dangerous.” She was laughing hardly as she rose. “I see,” she said. “You are really conventional underneath, Gordon. It was a mad idea--don’t let us talk any more about it. It hurts me a little.” In silence he paid the bill, in silence followed her into his car. He was hurt too. Nobody had ever called him conventional. Half way across Richmond Park he said: “We will go: let us say no more. I will meet you as we arranged.” The only answer she made was to squeeze his arm until they were flying down Roehampton Lane, and then, dreamily: “There is something Infinite in friendship like ours, Man. It is all too wonderful....” Diana was reading a magazine in The Study when Gordon came in. She threw down the magazine and jumped up from the chair (she sat at his desk when she read, with the exasperating result that the writing surface, which he left neat and ordered on his going out, was generally in a state of chaos on his coming in). “Dinner,” she said tersely. “You’re late, Gord, devilishly late.” Mr. Selsbury’s expression was pained.