But Maradick sat with his head hidden by his hand. He did not want to look at her, he did not want to speak to her. Already the fascination of her presence was beginning to steal over him again. It had been easy enough whilst she had been away to say that he did not care. But now the scent, violets, that she used came very delicately across the floor to him. He seemed to catch the blue of her dress with the corner of his eye even though he was not looking at her. She filled the room; the vision that he had had of the tower slipped back into the night, giving place to the new one. He tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. Why could she not have left him alone? He didn’t want any more struggles. He simply wasn’t up to it, he was so horribly tired. Anything was better than a struggle. He spoke in a low voice without raising his eyes. “Wasn’t it—isn’t it—rather risky to come here—like this, now?” After all, how absurd it was! What heaps of plays he had seen with their third act just like this. It was all shadowy, fantastic—the woman, the place. He wanted to sleep. She laughed. “Risky? Why, no. Fred’s in London. Nobody else is likely to bother. But Jim, what’s the matter? What’s happened? Why are you suddenly like this? Don’t you think it’s a little unkind on our last evening, the last chance that we shall get of talking? I don’t want to be a nuisance or a worry——” She paused with a pathetic little catch in her voice, and she let her hand fall sharply on to the silk of her dress. He tried to pull himself together, to realise the place and the woman and the whole situation. After all, it was his fault that she was there, and he couldn’t behave like a cad after arranging to meet her; and she had been awfully nice during these weeks. “No, please.” He raised his eyes at last and looked at her. “I’m tired, beastly tired; or I was until you came. Don’t think me rude, but I’ve had an awfully exhausting day, really awfully exhausting. But of course I want to talk.” She was looking so charmingly pretty. Her colour, her beautiful shoulders, the way that her dress rose and fell with her breathing—a little hurriedly, but so evenly, like the rise and fall of some very gentle music. He smiled at her and she smiled back. “There, I knew that you wouldn’t be cross, really; and it is our last time, isn’t it? And I have got a whole lot of things that I want to say to you.” “Yes,” he said, and he leaned back in his chair again, but he did not take his eyes off her face.