"Yesterday was rather tragic," he said. "We went to see this Lily Haden to whom Michael had engaged himself, and ... well ... it's impossible to explain to you what happened, but it was all very horrible and rather like a scene in a French play. Anyhow Michael is cured of that fancy, and now he talks of going out of England and even of becoming a monk. These extraordinary religious fads that succeed violent emotion of an utterly different kind! Personally I don't think the monkish phase will survive the disillusionment that's just as much bound to happen in religion as it was bound to happen over that girl." "What was she like?" Pauline asked, resolving to appear interested in Michael. "I never saw her," said Guy. "The tragedy took place 'off' in the Aristotelian manner." "Oh, Guy, don't use such long words." "Dear little thing, I wish you wouldn't ask any more about this girl. She is something quite outside your imagination; though I could make of her behaviour such a splendid lesson for you, when you think _you_ have behaved dreadfully in escaping from your room for an hour or two of moonlight. Poor Michael! he's as scrupulous as you are, and it's rather ironical that you and he shouldn't get on. Puritans, both of you! Now there's another friend of mine, Maurice Avery, whom you'd probably like very much, and yet he isn't worth Michael's little finger." "Did you see him yesterday?" "Yes, we went round to his studio in Grosvenor Road. Oh, my dear, such a glorious room looking out over the river right into the face of the young moon coming up over Lambeth. A jolly old Georgian house. And at the back another long low window looking out over a sea of roofs to the sunset behind the new Roman cathedral. There were lots of people there, and a man was playing that Brahms sonata your mother likes so much. Pauline, you and I simply must go and live in Chelsea or Westminster and we can come back to Plashers Mead after the most amazing adventures. You would be such a rose on a London window-sill, or would you then be a tuft of London Pride, all blushes and bravery?" "Bravery! Why I'm frightened to death by the idea of going to live in London. Oh, Guy, I'm frightened of anything that will break into our life here." "But, dearest, we can't stay at Wychford for ever doing nothing. Read The Statue and the Bust if you want to understand the dread that lies cold on my heart sometimes. Think how already nearly twenty months have gone by since we met, and still we are in the same position. We know each other better and we are more in love than ever, but you have all sorts of worries at the back of your mind and I have all sorts of ambitions not yet fulfilled. Michael has at least managed to make a complete ass of himself, but what have I done?" "Your poems ... your poems," she murmured despairingly. "Are your poems really no use? Oh, Guy, that seems such a cruel thing to believe."