Lucy was in a hard stare. "I don't feel kind just now. James has given me a horror of things of the sort. I don't believe he meant it. I think he felt snappish and thought he would relieve his feelings that way. But there it is. He has made it all rather disgusting. It's become like a kind of intrigue of vulgar people, in a comedy." "These things do when you take them out and look at them," Mabel said. "Like sham jewellery. They are all right in their cases. The velvet lining does so much. But although you may be disgusted with James's handling of your private affairs, you are not disgusted with--the other?" "No, I suppose not. I really don't know. He is the most understanding man in the world, and I would trust him through everything. I don't think he could tell me an untruth. Not one that mattered, anyhow. I could see him go away from me for a year, for two, and not hear a word from him, and yet be sure that he would come back, and be the same, and know me to be the same. I feel so safe with him, so proud of his liking me, so settled in life--I never felt settled before--like being in a nest. He makes everything I love or like seem more beautiful and precious--Lancelot, oh, I am much prouder of Lancelot than I used to be. He has shown me things in Lancelot which I never saw. He has made the being Lancelot's mother seem a more important, a finer thing. I don't know how to say it, but he has simply enhanced everything--as you say, like a velvet lining to a jewel. All this is true--and something in me calls for him, and urges me to go to him. But now--but yet--all this hateful jealousy--this playing off one man against another--Francis Lingen! As if I ever had a minute's thought of Francis Lingen--oh, it's really disgusting. I didn't think any one in our world could be like that. It spots me--I want to be clean. I'd much rather be miserable than feel dirty." Here she stopped, on the edge of tears, which a sudden access of anger dried up. She began again, more querulously. "It's his fault, of course. It was outrageous what he did. I'm angry with him because I can't be angry with myself--for not being angry. How could I be angry? Oh, Mabel, if it had been James after all! But of course it wasn't, and couldn't be; and I should be angry with him if I wasn't so awfully sorry for him." Mabel stared. "Sorry for James!" "Yes, naturally. He's awfully simple, you know, and really rather proud of me in his way. I see him looking at me sometimes, wondering what he's done. It's pathetic. But that's not the point. The point is that I can't get out." "Do you want to get out?" Mabel asked. "Yes, I do in a way. It has to be--and the sooner the better. And whether I do or not, I don't like to feel that I can't. Nobody likes to be tied."