They sat that time. There was no striding about the room and hammering of fists upon the table; rather a statement of fact, an icy exchange of view. There was cut and thrust and cut again, and to her sore, secret triumph a Justin awake at last, revealing strength, subtlety, decision, justifying her unconsciously in every estranging phrase. But human nature turned from such triumph. She began again, weakly, sparing herself. A miracle happened. She talked to him and he understood. He was kind. He was fine. He forgave her. He laughed at her and said she mattered more to him than a million birds’ eggs. And so they talked things out, friends still, watching their good future rise amid those scattered, foolish shells. She began again and broke off, and began again and yet again. She was still defying and defending and accusing and convincing him when she reached the Priory’s open door, and, noiseless and unseen, slipped up the stairs and along the panelled corridor to Justin’s room. It was empty. He had asked her to meet him there at noon and it was barely eleven o’clock. She had plenty of time. She began her invariable little tour of inspection. He had left his slippers as usual, toe to heel, in the middle of the floor: and the ash-tray stank. She knocked it out against the window-sill and the wind caught the ashes and dusted them back in her face. She had to trim herself in the fire-place tiles—there was no looking-glass—before she put back the tray and ranged the pipes in the rack and shook up the squashed cushions of Justin’s chair—all this with a grim little smile. She loved his hopeless ways. But the table was neat, set out with that extreme care which is the effect of a hobby on the untidiest of men. The books of reference were stacked in two piles, one for him and one for her. He had paste and photographs and scissors, and on the floor beside his chair an empty drawer and a roll of cotton-wool. She had pen and ink, and his beautifully bound private catalogue with the thick, lined paper and blank interleaves for illustrations. Between them was the cardboard box with the eggs they had not as yet classified and put away. She thought——He’s enjoyed himself getting things ready!... She drew the box towards her and stirred her hand round among the eggs; then, lifting a handful, poured them idly from one palm to the other. They rattled faintly like a woman’s high heels tapping along the pavement. She weighed them up and down. They were as light—as light as love.... Deliberately she let them shower through her fingers on to the floor. But the carpet was thick and they took no harm. Then, as if in spite of herself, she put out her foot and crushed them where they lay. She stood a moment, slurring her shoe to and fro, mechanically, to free it from the crumbs of shell, and then turned to the cabinet between the window and the door. That came next.... If you began a job, you must finish it....