She dashed at the only conclusion possible to an enlightened student of life. Joyce was in love with Lionel. Poor Joyce! She surveyed her tranquilly with sincere pity. Why were girls such hopeless, helpless fools? According to Mrs. Poyser, God Almighty had made the women fools to match the men. Was Lionel a fool, too? Obviously, as yet he could not read Joyce, but such transparent documents might be read at any moment. What then? Love bred love. She reflected, quite dispassionately, that Joyce and Lionel were a pretty pair, romantically considered. Passion slumbered in each. A word, a glance, a touch, and it would burst into flame. Her maid had left the room. Lady Margot was alone in the virginal, chintz-calendered blue and white bower which had been assigned to her. She lay in bed, with an electric light above her. A book, not a novel, was beside her. Memoirs were her favourite reading, not faked memoirs written by ingenious compilers, but the genuine article. She laid the book upon a table, turned out the electric light, and engaged in her particular form of prayer—rigorous self-examination and analysis. If she wanted Lionel, she must act. Did she want him? He had most engaging qualities. His manner with his mother was illuminating; such a devoted son might be reckoned sure to make a loyal and attentive husband. He had a sweet, sunny temper. He was intelligent, enthusiastic, and pleasant to look at. Greatest of assets, he was an agreeable companion. And she wished to marry. She regarded marriage as an adventure, a tremendous experience. No unmarried woman could boast that she had lived fully. Again and again, lying wide-awake in the darkness, she had visualised herself as the wife of a successful barrister, or painter, or novelist. Such men, she knew, made indifferent husbands if they were at the top of their several trees. Success imposed intolerable burdens. Goethe had been wise in marrying a simple hausfrau. And brilliant men were so subject to moods, such slaves to temperament. Life with Lionel would be a delightful pilgrimage through sunny places. . . . She thrilled. An enchanting languor crept upon her. Perhaps at that moment she was almost in love. Her busy little brain stopped working. She beheld herself, as in a dream, alone with her lover. His lips were on hers. His arms were about her. She yielded joyously to his embrace. As if in a trance, she murmured his name—Lionel. And she hardly recognised her own voice. She moved, and the spell was broken. But her heart throbbed; every pulse had quickened; her cheeks burned. . . . Then her brain began to calm and control the senses. She felt half-ashamed, half-proud of her emotions. Often she had wondered if she were quite normal. Many women, and some men, had told her that she wasn’t. Never in her twenty-five years of life had she been so physically thrilled and excited. Yes—she wanted him.