As she walked, she argued it out with him, the old imaginary Justin, in the old childish way. It was long since she had had him at her side. Her common sense had recognized the danger of such make-believe, the folly of using her mind as a mere play-house in which her thoughts were actors, rehearsing each coming event with such richness of setting, such significance of detail, such completeness of result, that, in comparison, the reality must always disappoint her. She had conquered, she believed that she had at last conquered the tendency, and prided herself a little on the effort; for it had been surprisingly difficult. Laura, arm-in-arm with Nemesis, did not for one instant recognize her companion, did not guess that the old creative instinct that she had so conscientiously scotched a year before was not, was never killed, that if growth were denied it in one art it would be bound to appear in another, and again and again denied its body, would find a ghost-life in her very dreams. Dear Laura was merely pleased with herself because, as Justin would have wished her to do, she had put an end to childish things, such as telling herself stories when she went to bed, deciding the colour of her eldest grandson’s eyes, and talking to Justin when he was not there. But, as I say, she had reckoned without her sleeping partner. On that June morning she walked the long mile between Green Gates and the Priory, unregenerate, a recusant, lips moving, eyes eloquent, rehearsing an ordeal, haranguing Justin. He would be angry—violently angry. She conceived her act, envisaged its consequences, nor lost her head when the explosion came. She was face to face with the anger of Justin and was able to ignore it. She argued: she overbore him: for once she let herself go. She had no need to stumble for words: the stinging phrases jostled for precedence upon her lips. She ranged her charges, calling this and that incident in witness: held up to ridicule his lethargy, his complacency, his lack of purpose. Her passion rose, she convinced herself anew, as she sorted her sentences, flung her taunts. She told him that his collection typified his attitude to life and, therefore, though it had been priceless, irreplaceable, instead of the trumpery it was, she would have destroyed it just the same. He asked her how she dared stand there—? (Justin’s few contributions to the discussion strike one as having a distinctly feminine flavour) how she dared—and she told him that she dared anything where he was concerned; that she knew what she was doing, what she was risking, what she was losing; but that he should not make himself a laughing-stock if she could help it; that if he could not see that he was making himself a laughing-stock, she did—she did! She was furiously rude to him; she—— She began all over again.