Then he did look up, keenly, with a drawn appearance about his mouth, showing his teeth. "Eh?" he said. "Oh, absurd." He occupied himself with his letter, folding it for its envelope, while she watched him with a pale intensity which ought to have told him, and perhaps did tell him, what she was suffering. "I don't think you should call me absurd," she said. "I was never very certain of it." "But, my dearest child, you made me certain, at any rate," he told her. "You made everybody certain. So much so that I have the tickets in my pocket at this moment." "I'm very sorry. I could pay for mine, of course--and I'm sure Vera would look after Lancelot. I wouldn't disappoint him for the world." "What are you going to tell Urquhart?" said James. Her eyes paled. "I believe that he would take it very simply," she said. James plunged his hands into his pockets. He thought that they were on the edge of the gulf. "Look here, Lucy," he said; "hadn't you better tell me something more about this? Perhaps you will come into the library for a few minutes." He led the way without waiting for her, and she stood quaking where she was. She was making matters worse: she saw that now. Naturally she couldn't tell James the real state of the case, because that would involve her in history. James would have to understand that he had been believed to have wooed her when he had done nothing of the kind. That was a thing which nothing in the world would bring her to reveal to him. And if she left that out and confined herself to her own feelings for Urquhart--how was all that to be explained? Was it fair to herself, or to Urquhart, to isolate the flowering of an affair unless you could show the germinating of it? Certainly it wasn't fair to herself--as for Urquhart, it may be that he didn't deserve any generous treatment. She knew that there was no defence for him, though plenty of excuse--possibly. No--she must go through with the Norway business. Meantime James was waiting for her. She stood by the library table while James, back to the fireplace, lifted his head and watched her through cigar-smoke. He had no mercy for her at this moment. Suspicions thronged his darkened mind. But nothing of her rueful beauty escaped him. The flush of sleep was upon her, and her eyes were full of trouble. "It isn't that I have any reason which would appeal to you," she told him. She faltered her tale. "I think I have been foolish--I know that I'm very tired and worried; but--I have had presentiments." James clicked his tongue, which he need not have done--as he knew very well. But he had not often been arbiter of late. "My child," he said, "really--" and annoyed her. "Of course you are impatient. I can't help it, all the same. I am telling you the truth. I don't know what is going to happen. I feel afraid of something--I don't know what--"