Was it that people had the day and the night in them, mixed in varying quantities? Jennifer had the strength of day, and you the strength of night. By day, your little glow was merged in her radiance; but the night was stronger, and overcame her. You were stronger than Jennifer in spite of the burning life in her. The light hid the things for which you searched, but the darkness and the silence revealed them. All your significant experiences had been of the night. And there, it was suddenly clear, was the secret of the bond with Roddy. He too had more shadow in him than sun. “_Chevalier de la lune_” that was he--“_Que la lumiere importune_”--ah! yes! “_Qui cherche le coin noir_”--yes, yes--“_Qui cherche le coin noir._” Some time--it did not matter when, for it was bound to happen--he would say in the dark “I love you.” Meanwhile there was Jennifer to be loved with a bitter maternal love, because she was afraid. And because, some day, she might be gone. For Jennifer said “I love you” and fled away. You cried “Come back!” and she heard and returned in anguish, clasping you close but dreading your dependence. One day when you most needed her, she might run away out of earshot, and never come back. But there was value in impermanence, in insecurity; it meant an ache and quickening, a perpetual birth; it meant you could never drift into complacence and acceptance and grow old. * * * * * There was Mabel, drifting into Judith’s life when conscience pricked and being joyfully dismissed again when the exigencies of duty seemed satisfied. There were little notes from Mabel found, with a sinking feeling, among her letters. Dear J., Would you care to come to church with me on Sunday? I shall be ready at 10.15. I do hope you will come this week. Yrs. M.F. Dear Judith, I thought you did not look quite yourself at lunch to-day. If there is anything worrying you, perhaps I might help you? Or if you are tired, come and rest in my armchair. I shall be working and will not disturb you. Yours Mabel. P.S. It’s all _this rushing_ about that _wears you out_ and makes you _unfit_ for work. M.F. Mabel wrote her advice now, more often than she dared speak it. Mabel, always pathetic, so that you could never entirely disregard her; always grotesque and untouched by charm so that it was impossible to think of her or look at her without revulsion; so that the whole thing was a tedious and barren self-discipline.