‘Then it’s not--something I’ve done?’ ‘God, no!’ The relief of that fierce denial brought a momentary illusion of happiness, for she had painfully persisted in trying to fasten the chief blame on herself. ‘I’m glad.... But it is true, isn’t it, that I’m involved in all that’s gone wrong; and that you must get away from me?’ ‘Oh yes, oh yes, because I can’t bear myself--because I must forget--because the thought of you is such a reproach ... the way I’ve treated you----’ her voice was almost inaudible. ‘Don’t, Jennifer, don’t. You’ve nothing to blame yourself for. It’s just the way things happen. That’s how I look at it. As long as it’s not anything I’ve done, as long as you tell me I haven’t--disappointed you somehow, I don’t mind--much not understanding----’ ‘Oh, you’re so good to me, you’re so kind. And there’s nothing I can do except hurt you. I’ve never done anything for you.’ ‘Oh, Jennifer, you’ve been all my happiness for two years.’ ‘It was very silly of you to be made happy by a person like me. You might have known I’d let you down in the end.’ ‘You haven’t let me down.’ ‘Yes. I’ve made you unhappy.’ It was not much use denying that. Geraldine seemed to be in the room, watching and listening. Judith felt her head droop as if beneath a tangible weight, and a most dreary sense of impotence fastened upon her. What was the use of talking, when all the time Geraldine, absent and untalked-of, controlled their secret decisions? To ignore her made a mockery of all attempted solutions and consolations, and yet to speak of her seemed impossible. ‘Well, you’ve been unhappy too.’ ‘Yes. Oh yes. Oh, Judith! There’s something I must ask you.’ She put her face against Judith’s arm, and the desperate pressure of her eyes, nose, lips upon the bare flesh was strange and breath-taking. Her lips searched blindly over wrist and forearm into the hollow of the elbow where they paused and parted; and Judith felt the faint and thrilling touch of her teeth.... But then Jennifer flung her arm away and said in a dry and careful voice. ‘I wanted to know: did you cry in your room night after night because I--because of the way I was behaving?’ ‘I’ve never cried, Jennifer.’ That was true enough. There were no tears to soften such arid and infecund griefs. ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘You say that as if----’ ‘Why did you think I’d cried?’ ‘Oh, it was just an idea I got. Something somebody said put it into my head and I couldn’t get rid of it. But now--I don’t know. The way you spoke makes me almost wish you had cried: because you seemed to mean you hadn’t been able to.’ She shut her eyes and lay still. ‘Jennifer, don’t. Don’t let’s go on. What’s the use? You know we’re not putting anything right or doing each other any good. It’s getting late--so I’d better go. You’ll be so tired to-morrow and it’ll be my fault. I ought never to have come.’