"Miss Caniper. Miss Helen Caniper." She had no memory of any other. She sat on one of the hard leather chairs and looked at a fern that died reluctantly in the middle of the table. Her eyes burned and would not be eased by tears, her heart leapt erratically in her breast, yet the one grievance of which she was exactly conscious was that Zebedee had a new servant and had not told her. If she had to have her tinker, surely Zebedee might have kept Eliza. She was invaded by a cruel feeling of his injustice; but her thoughts grew vague as she sat there, and her dry lips parted and closed, as though they tried to frame words and could not. For what seemed a long, long time, she could hear the sound of voices through the wall: then the study door was opened, a girl laughed, Zebedee spoke; another door was opened, there were steps on the path and the gate clicked. She sat motionless, still staring at the fern, but when Zebedee entered she looked up at him and spoke. "Zebedee," she said miserably. "Come into my room," he said. The door was shut on them, and she dropped against it. "Zebedee, I can't bear it." "My little life!" "I was so happy," she said piteously, "and, in the street, I saw you with that girl. You held her arm, and I had to come to you. I had, Zebedee." "Had you, dear?" he said. He was pulling off her gloves, gently and quickly, holding each wrist in turn, and together they looked at the broad band of gold. Their eyes met in a pain beyond the reach of words. She bowed her head, but not in shame. "My hat, too," she said, and he found the pins and took it from her. "Your ring is here," she said, and touched herself. Her lips trembled. "I can't go back." "You need not, dearest one. Sit down. I must go and speak to Mary." "She is better than Eliza," Helen said when he returned. "Yes, better than Eliza." He spoke soothingly. "Are you comfortable there? Tell me about it, dear." He folded his arms and leaned against his desk, and as he watched her he saw the look of strain pass from her face. She smiled at him. "Your cheeks are twitching." "Are they?" "They always do when you think hard." "You are sitting where you sat when you first came here." "And there were no cakes." "Only buns." "And they were stale." "You said you liked them." "I liked--everything--that day." "I think," he said, jerking his chin upwards, "we won't have any reminiscences." "Why not?" she asked softly. She went to him and put her arms round his neck. "It's no good, Zebedee. I've tried. I really loved him--but it's you--I belong to you." He could hardly hear what she said. "Can you love me any longer? I've been--his. I've liked it. I was ready to do anything--like that--for him." "Speak a little louder, dear." "You see, one could forget. And I did think about children, Zebedee, I couldn't help it." "Precious, of course you couldn't."