‘Ah, yes.’ She turned to unlock the door, and fumbling for the key, lightly remarked: ‘There’s a person I shall never see again.’ ‘Who?’ He affected surprise; but he was only pretending. She could feel him saying to himself: ‘So that’s it.’ And suddenly she hated herself for exposing herself, and him for guessing and dissembling, for forcing her to pronounce that name; and she added: ‘I can’t marry you, Martin, after all.’ Silence. ‘Well, I’ve told you the truth at last. I thought I could pretend to you all my life, but I can’t. You ought to be glad.’ He inclined his head. ‘Aren’t you going to say something, Martin?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Please forgive me,’ she said; but she could not feel contrition: only a great weariness. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. I never really believed you’d marry me anyway.’ ‘Luckily I’m going abroad. You’d better forget all about me.’ ‘It’s no good saying that,’ he said, with a brief and bitter laugh. ‘It was too late for that years ago.’ ‘You must try to hate me. I deserve it.’ ‘Oh, what’s the good of talking like that?’ he said impatiently. ‘Do you _want_ me to hate you? You know you don’t.’ ‘No, I don’t.’ ‘You know perfectly well I can’t do anything except go on loving you.’ He still leaned with dejected shoulders against the porch, talking out into the garden. The eastern sky swam brightly, and the first beams of the sun shot into the garden; and the fluting clamorous chorus redoubled their enthusiasm. ‘I haven’t seen the sun rise for years. Have you, Martin?’ She came near to him and put a hand on his sleeve. At the touch he turned round and confronted her in dumb despair, his eyelashes wet. ‘Martin, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ ‘I can’t leave you like this,’ he said, and clung to her. ‘Judith, is there nothing I can do?’ She reflected. ‘Yes. Will you do something for me?’ ‘Of course I will.’ His eyes lit up for an instant. ‘Listen, Martin. Suppose he ever mentions me----’ She felt herself going white and stopped. ‘Yes?’ he muttered. She went on breathlessly: ‘I don’t think he will, but if he should.... Supposing he ever starts to tell you something that happened--between him and me--please, you mustn’t let him. Promise! If he begins, stop him. I shall never see him again; soon I shall stop thinking about him: but you mustn’t know what happened. It was just a little silly thing--I shall see it quite differently some day ... but if I thought people knew I should _die_. Martin, don’t try to find out.’ ‘All right, Judith. It’s none of my business.’ ‘Perhaps men don’t tell things in the awful way women do? He doesn’t generally tell things, does he?’ She could hardly bear to listen for his reply. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ ‘Make it be as if you’d never known me. Oh, don’t talk about me!’ ‘I won’t. I promise.’ He looked at her; and she knew by his eyes how deeply she was making him suffer. After a long time she added: